


The Art of Fingertip Tracing

by vanilla_kate



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:06:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanilla_kate/pseuds/vanilla_kate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the "Do you permit it"s pass, dead men rise, and Enjolras and Grantaire live through the second floor execution. But how do you live from day to day when the one person you love could forget who you are... at any given moment?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I won't ruin anything. My summary is vague though, so I will tell you that most of the beginning of the story is canon up to the point where Grantaire and Enjolras are shot. The two of them live, Enjolras taking the bullet in his right shoulder and Grantaire getting absolutely nothing - but it's the fall that does it. Grantaire wakes up with amnesia, having no clue who Enjolras or the ABC Amis are. Enjolras thinks he can restore Grantaire's memory...  
> Until he realizes his mind could be wiped blank at any single moment.
> 
> The amnesia does not follow a time schedule. He could forget who Enjorlas is in one year or in two days.
> 
> (I promise it gets better if you can get past this part, but this was needed in order to make the story I wanted to make.)

Grantaire and Courfeyrac stood outside the Café Musain in the on-coming dusk. The day had been unusually hot. Both of them were doused in their own sweat, but both were equally grateful for the brisk breeze they were currently getting from the gaps between the houses. Ah, yes, the streets of Paris were something left to be desired, but this was home, this was what they were fighting against. You could almost taste the poverty.  
  
There was a light silence stretched between the two men as one lazily dragged the soles of his shoes back and forth across the pavement, and the other examined the sky.  
  
“Two more days, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire breathed, lowering his head back to normal eye-level. “This revolution is coming fast… and it does not seem to want to slow down.”  
  
Courfeyrac chuckled, continuing to drag his shoes across the ground. “Has it finally caught up to you?”  
  
“What?” Grantaire turned to look at him.  
  
“This is not something to be taken lightly, you know. It’s in the name: Revolution. The world is going to change, my friend.”  
  
Grantaire snorted. “You’re starting to sound like Enjolras,”  
  
“Ah, well, his head is in the right place…” Courfeyrac looked over his shoulder back at the café through the enormous, opened window. He gazed at Enjolras, sitting on the edge of the table, turning something over in his hands, examining it. “But sometimes I fear for him,”  
  
“Why do you say that?”  
  
Courfeyrac turned back to face Grantaire and shrugged. “The man is married to France, Grantaire. He knows nothing of life and fun and women. His tongue may be golden, and his heart may be big, but he has worked himself like a dog for God knows how long on this project of his.”  
  
And Grantaire too found himself looking up through the window at the poor man. After a moment of being watched through the window, Enjolras stood, placing whatever it was he was looking at on the table where he had sat, and peered out the window back at Grantaire.  
  
Taken aback, Grantaire tried to smile and give a slight wave to Enjolras, but to no avail. The man, his curly locks dancing on his scalp, exited the room, stomping down the stairs.  
  
Grantaire turned back to Courfeyrac and sighed. “He was always like this,”  
  
“Hm?”

“We’ve known each other for a long time now, Enjolras and I. We’ve been good friend for some time now. He’s always been stubborn, always been a wonderful speaker, always been a… a…” He waved his hands in the air, trying to grasp the word he was looking for.  
  
“A slave to rebellion?” Courfeyrac tried.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Enjolras is not content unless he’s fighting something. That’s just who he is, Grantaire. Enjolras is a rebel with a cause, and a good one at that.”  
  
And with that, Courfeyrac tipped his hat to Grantaire, and stalked back inside the café.   
  
  
  
After a moment of silence in the darkening streets of Paris, Grantaire turned back inside the café as well.   
  
Candlelight flickered on the walls, the entire café glowing with a boisterous, warm feel. The whole lot of the boys sat surrounding the table downstairs, their mugs full, their eyes bright, their voices loud.  
  
Grantaire stumbled over the table, placing a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “Have you seen Enjolras lately?”  
  
He nodded. “Just went out back,”  
  
Grantaire nodded in appreciation and left the table to go through the back door to check up on his friend. The work of running a revolt could not be easy in any way, and Grantaire was concerned that it was starting to take its toll.  
  
And as the back door swung open into the alleyway behind the café to show a pacing, fretting Enjolras, Grantaire knew he had been right. The dark bags under his eyes were immense, and he had gone a frigid, pale color. But as Enjolras raised his head to see whom it was opening the door, Grantaire could still make out the hard, determined look in his eyes.  
  
“You’re worrying about this too much, you know,” Grantaire stepped into the alley, closing the door behind him.  
  
“Too much? Do you hear yourself? We could be killed tomorrow.”  
  
He nodded, pursing his lips. “I realize this. If that’s going to happen, then why follow through?”  
  
And Enjolras whipped his head around to glare at Grantaire with such ferocity, he almost felt ashamed for having asked such a question.  
  
“Do you like the empty feeling in your stomach at night, my friend? Does it comfort you? Does it make you happy to see women and children cast aside to the streets as urchins to fend for themselves?”  
  
Grantaire stepped forward and sat on a nearby crate. “You know I don’t like it, but there is really nothing we can do. This place,” He opened his arms, addressing the street, “This is where dreams are crushed to dust. You cannot fix dust, Enjolras.”  
  
“Not with that mind-set,” Enjolras stomped over to his friend and kneeled so that they could be at eye-level. “Paris is capable of wonderful things, Grantaire!”  
  
“And you are capable of being terrible.”  
  
Enjolras stood again and turned his back to Grantaire. “Things are bad here. Bad is an understatement. The people must rise or life in the next hundred years will be even worse than now.”  
  
Grantaire stood and walked up to Enjolras’s back, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Who told you that the suffering of all of Paris’s impoverished people was to be set upon your shoulders?”  
  
The man with the curled, golden locks turned around slowly until they were facing one another. “Who else’s is it going to be placed upon?”  
  
“Certainly not Lesgles’s,”  
  
And the two men laughed mildly. For Enjolras, it had been he first time in weeks. He then squinted at Grantaire. “What kind of man are you?”  
  
“What?” Grantaire took a step back, but Enjolras followed him.  
  
“You do not believe in what the rest of us do. You don’t trust the rebellion, yet you trust us. And you come, and talk with us of a better tomorrow, and you smile at our integrity… You drink every night as we speak for the poor in this café… And I don’t understand.”  
  
“I’m just a realist, Enjolras. I am a man. A drunken realist with no place to go other than here for a friendly smile.”  
  
“But you even come during the times when I talk.”  
  
“But those are the best times to come.” Grantaire smirked.  
  
“Maybe you’re just here to ruin us. Get on the inside and then blow everything apart when you get the chance. Maybe I have my own little sabotage artist on my hands.” Enjolras too smirked.  
  
“Perhaps. Or maybe I’m just lonely.”  
  
“God, now you’re starting to sound like Marius.”  
  
Again they laughed, the cheery noise echoing throughout the alley, not belonging in the dark, damp place.  
  
There was a moment of silence until it was broken by Enjolras. “You’re a good friend. You don’t think things will go over well, yet you come to support us.”  
  
Grantaire shrugged. “I aim to please.”  
  
More silence.  
  
“Enjolras?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“You know I couldn’t ruin this sort of thing, right?” Grantaire allowed himself to step forward and place a hand on Enjolras’s forearm.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I couldn’t ruin your revolution. I wouldn’t be able to do it.”  
  
“And why not? You aren’t really a part of it.”  
  
“Because it’s you. And it’s something you truly believe in and love. And no matter if my intentions really were to burn down the café and ruin your revolt… I could never do it… because of you.”  
  
Enjolras stepped back, letting Grantaire‘s grasp fall free. “I think it’s best we went inside.”  
  
And he entered the Café Musain again, leaving a shivering Grantaire to sort through his thoughts in the dark alleyway.  
  
  
  
Throughout the rest of the night, Grantaire drank away the thought of being in the alley with Enjolras, hoping that by morning he’d only think it was a pleasant dream. Being that close to that man was dangerously enticing for Grantaire. It was a horrible tease, and Enjolras had no idea what he was doing to him…  
  
Or perhaps he did…  
  
But the memory of it had to be pushed aside.  
  
It was not easily accomplished, but as Grantaire’s eyes finally grew heavy, what with half of the boys asleep on the floor of the café and the other half off back at their homes for the night, Grantaire leaned his back against the wall and traced the outline of his left hand with his fingertips, imagining Enjolras being the one to do so.  
  
The floorboards creaked and up the stairs tiptoed an exhausted-looking Enjolras. He stood at the banister for a moment before gazing around the room, his eyes falling on Grantaire. Grantaire immediately snapped his eyes shut to show he was sleeping and did not have the energy in him to listen to another one of Enjolras’s rants.  
  
But still he could hear Enjolras’s slow steps as he strode across the room to him. A warm hand was on his neck in an instant.  
  
“Grantaire…” Enjolras whispered. “Grantaire…”  
  
But he did not stir. He was tired for the night. He was worn to the bone. And he did not think he could bare being so close to Enjolras yet again, practically smelling the enthusiasm coming off of him, only to remember that France was his mistress, and that he was nothing more than a sabotage artist and a drunken man to Enjolras.  
  
And so Grantaire remained quiet.  
  
But Enjolras did not stand and walk away. Instead, he wrapped him arms around Grantaire’s torso and picked him up. He laced his arms under Grantaire’s arms and dragged him down the stairs, his heels knocking against every step.  
  
Half-surprised, half-confused, Grantaire opened his eyes in the most minimal manner. He looked through the slits to see Enjolras set him down on the floor for a moment before tucking his arms under Grantaire’s again and hauling him from the café and to the right, down yet another dark alley.  
  
Resting for short intervals, Enjolras eventually managed to drag Grantaire down a total of four alleys, two streets, a past a multitude of houses before they came to a house with dark walls and dark windows, all except for a single one high up on the second floor, illuminated by a single candle on the window sill.  
  
Again Grantaire clipped his eyes shut as Enjolras groaned, dragging both of their bodies around the back of the building and up a multitude of steps. A door was opened and suddenly Grantaire felt no more wind on his bare cheeks and forehead as he was hauled into the small, grey room on the second story of the house, the small candle almost burnt to the end of its wick, the wax dripping off the sides and glazing over the wood of the window pane.  
  
He was set on the floor gently, his head falling to the side, resting on the rough texture of the wood. He soon felt another warm hand on his cheek. It tried to shake him awake tenderly yet again, but still Grantaire kept his mouth shut, the only sign of him still living being the slow rise and fall of his chest.  
  
“God damn it, Grantaire,” Enjolras whispered fiercely. “You’ve got to stop drinking. It’ll kill you.”  
  
Grantaire was lifted yet again and placed on a soft something that he had not felt in weeks. He let his head roll to the side again, his skin rubbing against the soft fabric. He had not slept on a cot in so long… So, so long… How wonderful it felt…  
  
A sheet was pulled across his body. Clammy hands touched his forehead, and swiftly worked his vest off, then, eventually, his cravat. He pressed his back onto the cot even harder, making sure it was real.  
  
“Grantaire, you have to wake up,” Enjolras breathed. “I cannot being going so insane as to think I’m talking to you and you cannot hear me because of your drunken, immobilized state… yet here I am.”  
  
Ah, so that’s what it was. Enjolras had it in mind that Grantaire had drunk himself so tired that he was on the verge of being in a coma-like state. And for the strangest of reasons, Grantaire found this amusing. He tried to hold back his grin.  
  
“You handed me kind words in the alley today… and I should have thanked you… But I didn’t, so here I am now. This is my thank you.”  
  
Grantaire could not hold in his smile any longer. His lips parted immediately, showing off a smile that did not belong there, shooting it up at Enjolras who leaned over him.  
  
“If all I have to do is say kind words to you to get a cot to sleep in at night, then what would I get if I wrote you paragraphs of thoughtful things?”  
  
Enjolras looked exhausted, the workload showing in his red-rimmed eyes and his trembling hands. The man sat down on the chair nearest to the bed and folded his hands in his lap, watching his own fingers as he twiddled his thumbs and traced the creases in his palm. He gave Grantaire a quiet, drowsy smile.  
  
“Perhaps three nights on a cot. Or a hug. I’m not quite sure.”  
  
“Are you saying your hugs are so marvelous they’re equally as fantastic as three nights here?”  
  
More smiles. More palm tracing. More rustling sounds as clothing shifted.  
  
“I am… but we do not have three more days,” A sudden sadness filled Enjolras’s dark eyes, a sadness Grantaire had never seen before, or maybe it was all he saw, maybe it was the kind of sadness that had always lingered in his friend’s eyes.  
  
“But we do have two.” Grantaire tried.  
  
Enjolras glanced up at him from having lowered his head to examine his hands. “Yes, I suppose we do. And in a week’s time we’ll be free.”  
  
“You have so much faith in this revolution.” Grantaire observed.  
  
And Enjolras nodded. “Of course I do. The way the people of France are treated… it is inhumane, it’s unjust.”  
  
“I hate to see you this way. You have not been happy for so long, Enjolras.”  
  
“I am happy when I can see our freedom so close. I am happy knowing that I have started something that these people can rely on and hold close. I am happy to see Jehan and Marius and Lesgles and the rest of the men happy. I am happy when I see you happy.”  
  
And Grantaire halted nearly everything he could have possibly been doing in that instant. Fumbling with the sheet, curling his toes, blinking, breathing…

He turned to Enjolras.  
  
“I make you happy?”  
  
“In a sense, yes.”  
  
“In a sense?” Grantaire slowly removed the sheet from his slick skin and hung his feet over the side of the cot, turning to face Enjolras. He aimed his bare feet for the ground, but ended up setting them on top of Enjolras’s shoes.  
  
Enjolras nodded, leaning forward, tucking his elbows in to rest them on his lap. “Of course. You’re my friend, Grantaire.”  
  
Grantaire shook his head in slightest manner, smirking to himself. He closed his eyes and turned his head up, craning his neck, to face the ceiling. And the smallest, saddest of sighs trickled from his lips, splattering itself all over Enjolras’s shoes. Was Enjolras really that thick, that dense? Could he not sense what Grantaire had hoped he might? Not even in the slightest?

“Yes… Yes, I suppose I am.”  
  
“Are you alright? Your skin looks like snow.” Enjolras again pressed the back of his hand to Grantaire’s forehead, sending shivers throughout his body. The coolness of that hand, yet it set Grantaire’s whole body on fire, blazing through his muscles, racing around his bones, and curling from his mouth only to lick at the curls of his hair. His whole body was aflame. Ah, yes, the fire was certainly there when Grantaire felt Enjolras’s familiar touch, and there was certainly plenty of it.  
  
He nearly felt ashamed for thinking of Enjolras in such a way — the man was his best friend, his leader, his guidance. He was so chaste; one would wonder if he even knew what women or relationships were. A pure schoolboy, a good thinker, an innocent man…  
  
Grantaire could take it no longer, ripping himself from the soft cot, slinging Enjolras’s hand away. He turned his back on him, angry not only with himself but also with Enjolras.   
  
How could he have let this happen? He was a man, for Christ’s sake, a man, and he should be acting like one. Men went after women… Men went after women… not other men… Was he not normal? Had God made him the way for a reason or was he simply so diseased, so plagued by this all on his own? Had he done this to himself? Because never before had he been attracted to any sort of human being of the same gender…  
  
And then there was this hot-headed speaker with his hair the color of lemons and his voice resembling one that belonged only to a church choir. And he was so passionate with what he did. And there was that sense of approachableness to him. Enjolras was your everyday man, yet he was not your everyday man. What a complex person he was. And here he was, ruining Grantaire’s life with everything that he was, with every ounce of his being, denying everything Grantaire knew to be right.  
  
Frustrated, overwhelmed, and simply angry at himself, Grantaire kicked the wall that held the window. The small candle wavered in its place, yet it stuck, the dried wax holding securing it to the wood.  
  
Enjolras stood up swiftly, making his way over to Grantaire, who had wrapped his hands around his skull, gripping his tangles of hair, pulling at them, twisting them, giving himself the pain he deserved for not being a holy man, not being a man of God.   
  
Enjolras’s hands grasped Grantaire’s firmly, yet still softly somehow. They were slow hands, yet they were sure; certain, yet not forceful. “Stop it.”  
  
Grantaire laughed a cold laugh that slid up his throat from his abdomen, and the taste of it was vile. “You have no clue, my friend. You have no idea.”  
  
“Then tell me. Let me help you. Please. It’s hard to see you in a state like this.”  
  
Grantaire could have cried in that moment, but he felt much more like vomiting, so he kept his mouth closed. Enjolras encased Grantaire’s slick hands in his own, and brought them so close to his mouth… so very close… and breathed a hot breath on Grantaire’s hands, warming them up immensely.  
  
“Enjolras—” Grantaire began to plead.  
  
“Please. You’re obviously troubled.”  
  
“You must listen to me when I say it is nothing,”  
  
Enjolras scoffed. “It is obviously not nothing, Grantaire. You look as though you’re going mad over it.”  
  
“Maybe I am.”  
  
“Which is why I need to know. Maybe I can help.”  
  
“Trust me, Enjolras, you can only make it worse.”  
  
Enjolras dropped Grantaire’s hands, letting them sway rhythmically at his sides. “I see you’re stubborn about this. Fine. But at least go to sleep. I find you on wooden floors in pubs far too often.”  
  
After a moment more of thought, Grantaire sighed in surrender and collapsed upon the bed. He spread his legs across the cot, tangling his feet in the heap of sheets at the base of the bunk.  
  
“So…” Grantaire started, smirking. “About that hug.” He didn’t know why he had said it in spite of himself. He was only setting himself up for disaster, even though Enjolras knew he was joking.  
  
And Enjolras laughed. “I’ll need my paragraphs of thoughtful words first.”  
  
“Ah, true.” Grantaire smiled, watching the shadows on the ceiling flicker as the candle in the window began to meet its end. “You know, earlier today Courfeyrac said you had a golden tongue.”

“Is that so?” Enjolras tugged at the end of his own cravat, loosening it until it swung uselessly around his neck, barely even tied. “And what do you think?”

“Of what?”

“My tongue.”

Grantaire gazed at the ceiling, tucking his right hand behind his head.

 _Ha! What do_ I _think of your tongue? Mmm, your tongue—  
No. Stop it. You can’t think like that._

And he shrugged. “I think you’re the finest speaker there was. You’ve got a real gift for persuasion, Enjolras.”

Enjolras leaned back in the chair yet again. “I suppose I should thank you,”

There was a pause.

“Were you really asleep while you left me to drag you through the streets of Paris?” Enjolras asked, ripping away the thick coat of silence.

“Yes,” Grantaire lied. “It took me a moment to wake up. All I felt was wood and then a soft cot. And then your words.”

“Ah, me talking seems to help quite a bit of people lately.”

“In all honesty, Enjolras, what would you do if I wrote you paragraphs of kind words?”

Enjolras leaned forward again, folding himself in half at the waist. “You act as though you’re considering doing it.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Well, then I suppose I’d have to follow through with my promise, wouldn’t I? Three nights on a cot.”

“But we don’t have three nights. Just as you said.”

“Then a hug it would be,” Enjolras cocked an eyebrow at Grantaire. “Are you really contemplating doing so?”

Grantaire smiled and shrugged. “I’m not quite sure. What would I get if I started participating in helping your cause?”

“Ah, tricky question. You have no idea how much something like that would mean to me.”

“And if I actually believed in it? If I helped you free France?” Grantaire turned his head to the left, looking across the empty space at Enjolras, a tired heap of skin and twisted, thick hair with a quiet smile.

“I’m not sure if I would be able to ever repay you if something like that happened. I may kiss you,” Enjolras breathed a laugh, but Grantaire did the exact opposite, tensing up his muscles as tight as he could, though it was almost involuntary. He grit his teeth, grinding his fingers into painful fists, his eyes darting immediately away from Enjolras back to the ceiling.

“Grantaire, you’ve gone cold again.” Enjolras observed, wrapping his fingers around Grantaire’s wrist.

“Yes, I know.” Grantaire sighed, turning on his side, his back to Enjolras.

“Perhaps I should go and leave you to sleep.”

When Grantaire remained silent, Enjolras stood, placing a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“You do realize I was only joking, don’t you? About kissing you?”

Grantaire nodded and Enjolras took the smallest of steps away from both the bunk and Grantaire, letting his fingers slide from Grantaire’s shirt. And in a voice that was so quiet, so small, it was nearly inaudible, Grantaire whispered to himself, “Which is the worst part,”

Enjolras stopped in his tracks, whipping his head around. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Grantaire… I heard you.”

Every hair on Grantaire’s body stood on end, every ounce of him suddenly aware of where he was, what he was laying on, what he had said. He sat up on the bed, crossing his legs, biting his bottom lip so hard he could taste the blood as it slid over his tongue. He grasped the bed sheets with firm fingers as if that would help him disappear in that very moment. Christ, what had he done? Why had he opened his mouth? Why couldn’t he have just stayed quiet?

“What did you mean, Grantaire?” Enjolras’s strides were small, slow, intimidating, echoing throughout the tiny room as he ever so slightly stalked over to the bed.

“I did not mean anything by it.” Grantaire lied, every ounce of blood rushing under his skin right up to his face.

“You’re lying. You want to.” Enjolras placed his hands on the bottom of the cot, spreading his fingers out. He glared at Grantaire as he had in the alleyway, when Grantaire had told him his cause was pointless. His brow furrowed, his dark eyes growing more and more intense by the second, scoping Grantaire, scanning him, trying to gouge out the truth.

“W-What? No, Enjolras, n-no.” Grantaire suddenly found it hard to swallow.

“Don’t lie to me. It’s degrading and cruel and I am the closest person you’ve got. I don’t deserve to be lied to.”

Grantaire sucked in a bit of air. This was not normal, this was not like him at all. He was usually the one laughing, the one drinking, having a good time. He would be the one to joke and bring smiles on peoples' faces. And now, it felt as though every pound of him was that of lead, his head feelings as though it may rupture any second.

"You  _are_  the closest person I've got," Grantaire breathed.

Enjolras made his way over to Grantaire, and stood in front of him, placing one hand on each of Grantaire's knees. Surprised and a bit confused, Grantaire looked up at his friend.

"And I do believe you  _are_  trying to sabotage me," A slow smirk crept across Enjolras's face and Grantaire could not do it anymore, the pull of Enjolras being too much. He thrust himself forward and mashed his lips against Enjolras’s without even giving himself time to register what was happening and what he was doing.

And almost as quickly as he had done it, Grantaire pulled away, an unfamiliar shyness and discomfort creeping over him. He kneaded his hands into fists and looked anywhere but at his friend.

“You…” Enjolras watched Grantaire closely, trying to grasp what had just happened. “You…”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I– I– I’m sorry. I don’t understand— What?” Grantaire had stopped stuttering, finally looking forward at Enjolras, his hands still clamped over Grantaire’s knees.

“Grantaire…” Enjolras said unsteadily, as if he was treading on dangerous ground. “Grantaire…”

And just as Grantaire was about to apologize again, thinking he had surely screwed himself over with his stupid, self-indulgent whims, Enjolras lifted his hands from Grantaire’s knees and grasped Grantaire by the neck, pulling him forward to kiss him yet again. And this time, Grantaire basked in it.

Yet nearby, the air was growing chilly outside as though winter was on its way. A young breeze sprang up, waltzing all over Paris as Enjolras and Grantaire sat in the small room on the second floor. It danced past houses and up alleyways and slid across streets. It grazed the very skin of the wealthy, the street rats, and the whores, only to find its way right outside the small building where the two men took shelter.

And as the people of Paris lay sleeping - half of the city preparing for a revolution; the other half expecting to slaughter those very schoolboys the next morning - the breeze extinguished the small, elderly flame of the candle in the window of that building.

 

And there would be no more light for quite some time.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire was the first of the two of them to wake with a start, the grey sunlight streaming in through the open window where the candle had died just the night before. Low, dark clouds hung overhead, and Grantaire disentangled himself from the cot, an ocean of curly locks and pale limbs. Quickly, he stood, unwinding the sheet from his calf and sat on the dirty floor, crossing his legs.

Enjolras sat up instinctively, gripping the folds of the sheets so hard his knuckles went white. He gazed forward, not daring to turn his head to look over at Grantaire.

“What—?” Enjolras whispered into the emptiness of the room, but he did not have to finish, because Grantaire knew.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire stumbled over his words, the simplicity of the two of those words was so hurtful to hear jerking off his tongue in such a manner. And Enjolras really thought he had meant it, that he was sorry.

“You’re sorry? _You’re_ the sorry one?” Enjolras whispered again. He buried his face in his hands, ashamed of himself. There was something in the way Grantaire had apologized that had struck him dumb, astonished, and a little bit sad. “Jesus, Grantaire…”

He shook his head. Here was his friend, loyal to him and his ideals even when he had every right to turn away from them. And he had loved him. All while Enjolras went on planning this stupendous rebellion, oblivious to practically anything that went on around him that hadn’t anything to do with his cause— Grantaire, women, food…

Women. Had he even ever been fond of women in a sexual manner? For the bulk of his life he knew he was hardly interested in touching them, let alone sustaining a relationship with one. He was so chaste and nearly everyone knew it.

But this? No. This feeling he had stirring in his stomach was far different than one he had felt before. He knew he was ashamed, but for what? For staying with Grantaire through the night? Or kissing him? Or knowing Grantaire loved him, but Enjolras could only love him in a different fashion? Or was it because he was ashamed he hadn’t noticed it before?

He threw the sheet off, standing, grabbing his cravat from the chair by the bunk. “We have to go. We only have one more day until the revolution.”

“Enjolras—” Grantaire stood.

"Please, Grantaire," Enjolras said quietly. He did not know how to feel except for the taste of shame and guilt rotting on his tongue. "We must go quickly."

Grantaire was quiet for a moment more. He lay silent and still in the room. He leaned forward after a minute more and gave Enjolras a timid, small, quiet smile, one that made Enjolras feel even more awful than he already had. It pierced him sharply in the chest and wrenched at his guts. That scared little smile had no business here.

"Of course," Grantaire whispered, the delicate smile still lingering on his lips. "We've got a war to fight."

 

* * *

 

 

The day progressed, the anticipation growing and rising in everyone’s throats like a high tide; the heaviness and realization of the revolution weighing them down like stones in their stomachs.  
  
But it weighed down no one more than Enjolras.  
  
His fingers gripped the flag like it was the last bit of thread that was holding him together, and, in all honesty, it most likely was.  
  
There was a gathering as the parade of guards and cavalry made their way proudly down the streets of Paris, yet they knew of the rebellion. Of course they knew. But they ignored it anyway, enjoying what little time they could as they strode down the wide streets, allowing themselves the thought, even if for only a single moment, that all of France loved them.  
  
And then Enjolras was jumping out into that very street, waving his flag and shouting for liberty, the precision of his words striking the guards heartily on the shoulder blades and backs, lashing at their throats, clipping their chins, carving into their skin. Enjolras’s words had struck yet again. Grantaire hardly even registered the fact Enjolras had called them all, roused everyone’s attention by screaming, “To the barricade!”  
  
And then there was quite a lot of running. Grantaire clamped his palm onto his head, holding his red cap in place, running as fast as he could, nipping at the heels of Joly. They all made their way through the city, dodging citizens, sliding by guardsmen, sprinting from alleyway to alleyway until they all found themselves gathered outside the Musain.  
  
The shouting was tremendous. Grantaire remembered himself shouting as loud as he could for others to toss down anything wooden, anything sturdy, anything that could stop the soldiers’ bites. He called out for the women in the surrounding houses to toss down their belongings to support a cause he did not believe in, lead by a man he did believe in.  
  
“We need all the furniture you can throw down!” Courfeyrac had shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth. Pianos and chairs and coffins rained down from the windows of Paris. There were bed frames and cabinets and tables. And Grantaire had been so invested in that moment, so thrilled and enthralled in doing this to help Enjolras, doing anything to help Enjolras, he even kissed the stubborn woman from the café so as to get her up from that chair. Every bit of furniture helped.  
  
“Thank you, Madame!” He called back, rushing the chair out to their fortress.  
  
All of it was put forth to build a makeshift barricade that would certainly please someone like Enjolras. And you could see it too in his eyes: He was proud of his people, these peasants, these low-lives of France. They had done it. They had built a stronghold.  
  
Enjolras gazed around the street once the haste and panic of wooden rain had ceased, and gave himself the slightest of smiles before planting their mark — a ragged, worn crimson flag — on top of their barrier.  
  
And they all readied themselves, tight grips around guns, hard glances at one another. Everyone glanced around at each other, half proud, half so deeply terrified and internally hysterical over the current situation. And as small smiles were passed around from each boy, slipping from the familiar lip curves into the palms of the boy beside them, they knew. Yes, they realized. This was their last night. Their friends would be dead by morning.  
  
The revolution was coming fast.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire had settled himself on the base of the barricade, the fear eating him away from the inside out. He had grasped his drink tightly, his knuckles growing calloused and white, his teeth flattening out to nubs from being ground. He looked around at his friends, his fellow comrades. A sudden guilt pierced him, taking up every nook and cranny of his body, nearly overflowing from his mouth, drowning his lungs in the sickly, horrifying, cruel feeling.  
  
These men had been loyal to the cause. They had believed in this. They had put all of their trust and hope into this fight. If Grantaire was disappointed and depressed… what did these men feel?  
  
Enjolras sighed uneasily, his breath coming out in increments. “Coufeyrac, you take the watch. They may attack before it’s light. Everybody keep the faith, for certain as our banner flies, we are not alone. The people, too, must rise.”  
  
He then walked over to a struggling Marius, desperate to keep himself busy, to keep his mind off the current situation. His nimble hands worked, shoving more chairs and end tables onto the barricade, covering up some of its many holes.  
  
Their beautiful barricade was withering down. It was beginning to look like no more than a scrap heap.  
  
“Marius, rest.” Enjolras said firmly, yet tenderly.  
  
And Marius had nodded, breathless, settling down on the ground near the rest of the boys.  
  
“Drink with me…” Grantaire started quietly, breaking through the rest of the small chattering clambering on around him. He stared straight ahead, emotionless. “To-day’s gone by…”  
  
And soon the rest of the men had sprung up, their voices rising from the depths of the rickety barricade. And for a millisecond, for the smallest sliver of a second, Grantaire felt as though he had done the right thing, done something important, something that Enjolras would be proud of. He had stirred the boys’ faith yet again, raising their hopes back up to the clouds…  
  
In something he could never fully trust.  
  
And in remembering that, Grantaire’s self-importance faded, leaving only a broken artist by a broken barricade in the overwhelming darkness of a soon-to-be broken Paris.

* * *

  
  
  
  
Next there was a thick-boned man. A traitor. A spy. A scoundrel. And Grantaire had become so overwhelmingly frustrated and furious that another person would try to do that to Enjolras and his friends’ revolt, something they had worked so hard on, and made them believe he was a friend, he threw himself at the man along with Courfeyrac. The two of them tried to fight him down, but Grantaire was throw away with a throaty grunt, smacking his face off the nearby wall. He fell to the ground, but quickly stood again, not baring the thought of ruining this, letting this man escape with inside information from the barricade.  
  
Eventually, Enjolras went after the man. Gavroche made it a point to tell everyone he knew all along it was Inspector Javert.  
  
“This only shows what little people can do,” He’d say smugly with a wink.  
  
And not long after the wild-eyed police inspector, another challenge arose.  
  
The Final Attack.  
  
And Rue Plumet would fall like the rest of them.

* * *

 

For a while, the sadness filled Grantaire to the brim of his whole being. He didn’t even realize someone could feel so much sadness. And suddenly, he longed for the previous days, the days where he could sit down at the table in the Musain and listen to Enjolras’s rants but think nothing of them, think that he was all talk and no action. The days where Courfeyrac would run into the café, yelling with delight, his eyes warm and his smile stretched across his face, trying to hide his teeth, another stray cat in his arms. Or the days where Combeferre and Marius would sit on the side of the room and chat idly, laughing every so often, with Joly and Jehan and Lesgles sitting on the floor in a circle sharing stories. Or those days when he didn’t drink as much, and played the piano so beautifully or the days he could actually patiently sit down and draw out a landscape with a piece of charcoal and actually finish it. And sometimes during those boyhood days he would notice a curious Enjolras watching him, his eyes burning into the back of his neck or over his shoulder, and he felt important, because Enjolras was interested in something he was doing. Once he even smiled at him when Grantaire turned around. A simple gesture, but Enjolras had no clue how much it had meant to Grantaire.

He longed for those days of innocence that he new would never come back even if they made it out of this alive.

Grantaire had even sat down beside the broken piano that served as part of the barricade’s foundation and let his fingers rest there. His fingertips had stroked what he thought was the low F key, a song relaying in his head, the image of the sheet music still someone etched into his mind.

And his fingers moved slowly, but steadily:

**C F C F G F C F**   
**C F C F G F C F**   
**C F C F G F C B**   
**B F C B C**

And for a moment, he smiled. A real smile.

He felt his own hope inside of him like a flower in bloom.

He had to keep hope.

Hope was all he had.

 

* * *

 

  
It was quite difficult for Grantaire to remember anything beyond there. Frustrated from working so hard on something he had such little faith in, he took to drowning himself and his spirits. What was with this revolution? Was it really that important?  
  
There were deafening sounds rattling on outside — canons, guns, the shouting of scared men, the groaning of the wounded… but Grantaire still found himself able to pass out with his neck bent like a flower stem, his cheek plastered to the table.  
  
When he awoke, the sounds were still there, but definitely not as intense. The canons had vanished. There were no more gunshots. There were no more cries. And the reason there were no more cried from the injured was the simple fact that there were no more wounded. They were all dead.  
  
Grantaire stood up quickly, banging the edge of his hip on the meeting table that had been shoved up against the wall. He cursed at himself, rubbing the sore spot, and looked around the room. Before he could even react, the noise of several gunshots pierced the silence, ripping through it like cloth.  
  
Grantaire’s heart hammered in his chest. Had someone struck Enjolras? Had he woken up seconds too late? Had he missed that chance by a single minute?  
  
He began to feel a slow and powerful panic rising from his abdomen to his throat. He wanted to vomit, but instead stumbled along the floor to the stairs, his leg still half asleep. He climbed the stairs only to find several bright colors blocking his vision: Blue, white, and red. It was only until they moved, swiveling their heads around to face him, that he realized that these colors were national guardsmen.  
  
And they cornered his Enjolras.  
  
The panic instantly fled. The confusion fell. Even the deafening silence from the streets below seemed to vanish. And he was in that room with the bitter-looking gunmen that were about to take away the only thing Grantaire still cared about.  
  
He clumsily made his way across the room, shoving the guards so as to make himself a path. Enjolras lifted his low-hanging head slightly to look at Grantaire. He looked ashamed, of course. Ashamed and guilty and his dark eyes watched Grantaire in confusion. But still his look was could not quite be placed into a single category. _I’m so sorry_ , was all it simply seemed to say.  
  
Grantaire pushed himself ahead of the guards even further, not even registering their hard gazes upon him.  
  
“Do you permit it?” Grantaire whispered.  
  
And no, of course Enjolras didn’t. He wanted nothing more than for Grantaire to run back to the safety and the shelter of the first floor of the café. To die this way was his sentense, not something he wanted to drag Grantaire down with too. He wanted Grantaire to be safe and solid and secure, to go on with his life and forget about the ABC Amis and their failed revolution.  
  
But at the same time, there was that deep longing for Grantaire Enjolras always had buried inside of him. Having that comfort of Grantaire standing next to him was as if he could take half the weight of France off his shoulders and share them with someone else, someone who understood. And though Enjolras knew Grantaire would never understand his passion, he allowed himself to believe that he did for the slightest moment.  
  
His hand clasped Grantaire’s so tightly the blood might have drained from both of their wrists. Enjolras gave the soldiers a hard smile and raised the red flag in his hand.  
  
 _Long live the revolution._  
  
 _Vive la France._  
  
And to die this way, with Grantaire at his side was not bad, Enjolras had mused. Not bad at all.  
  
There was the sound of multiple guns being fired all at once. Grantaire flew back from the pressure of the bullet, slamming against the wall.  
And Enjolras.  
Dear, sweet, stubborn Enjolras.  
His ankle caught the edge of the window as he tumbled out of it in one swift motion, his body laying limp upside down, the sign of the rebellion still in his firm grasp.  
  
 _What a divine way to die_ , Enjolras had thought in that moment. _What a blissful way to go out_.  
  
The only problem was simple:

_Enjolras did not die._


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras’s eyes opened, terrified of what he may see, tentative and timid, but he opened them all the same. For a moment, he was slightly confused. The buildings were all backwards, the bodies lay face-down on a grey cobblestone sky, and the streets seemed to be woven from bright blue cement.  
  
He glanced around, his eyes falling on his own left hand, still tangled around the rotting red flag. He sat up, suddenly feeling lightheaded. He grasped his head in his hands, groaning and tugging his ankle free from the edge of the broken window. He stood inside the small room on the second floor of… where? Where was he again?  
  
Ah, yes, the Musain. And what had happened? Wasn’t there a shot? It was him, wasn’t it? The one who was shot?  
  
Enjorlas felt around his pelvic area, slowly easing upward, patting down his chest and then finally found the wound with a low growl and a sharp gasp of pain. The bullet had pierced his right shoulder. He couldn’t decide if he felt numb, not feeling it at all, or if the hole in his skin was all he felt. He pressed his left palm to it, trying to add more pressure. Surely Joly would be able to help him in this case…  
  
What had happened? Where was Bahorel and Feuilly and Marius? He gazed around the room quickly, searching for them. His eyes landed on the single table in the corner, pushed aside by the boys and the guards most likely.  
  
And suddenly it came back to him.  
  
Their revolution had already taken place. The shot he had taken to his shoulder was the result of him being caught and almost executed for his actions. His friends were dead, lying somewhere out in the streets probably. Would anyone even identify them, even know who they were? Would they be buried nameless?  
  
Grief suddenly washed over Enjolras, the devastation of the battle hitting him like a rock on the back of his head. They were gone, really gone. Courfeyrac would no longer be around to collect the cats around Paris or to make them laugh when they desperately needed it. There would no longer be a Prouvaire to bring them flowers and read them his poems in silent night, or a Grantaire to drink his way through their meetings and tease Enjolras. There would be no more worried glances from Joly or fierce grins from Bahorel and all of it came crashing down on Enjolras like a wave of depression, filling his lungs and drowning him. This sadness, it was far too overwhelming.  
  
Enjolras winced at the pain of his shoulder yet again and thrust his hands to his face. His friends were all dead. All of them.  
  
“Hello?” A voice slithered over quietly. It seemed to sound familiar and strange at the same time. Like something from the dream of a dream, or hearing yourself walk on gravel for the first time.  
  
Enjolras lifted his head and turned to face Grantaire, sitting on the ground, his eyes wide and his hands combing through his hair.  
  
“God, my head hurts,” He whispered. “Who are you?”  
  
Enjolras was far too shocked to realize Grantaire was alive to respond. He stood there, mouth agape, a slow and steady breath drifting from his lungs.  
  
“Well?” Grantaire asked. “Don’t you have a name?”  
  
Enjolras finally shook his head at Grantaire. “I… You know my name, stop being daft. How are you still alive?”  
  
Grantaire shook his head and stood, rubbing bits of dust and debris from his shoulders. “Still alive? I don’t understand…”  
  
“You…” Enjolras shuddered, finding his breath, finding the words to say. What was going on? Why was Grantaire being so thick? “Stop this. The revolt has already taken place, winesack. Get up, come here. How are you still alive, my God…?” He was troubled, bouncing back and forth between irritation and shock.  
  
“W-Winesack…? It would do you some good to at least be a bit more respectful to someone who has no clue what’s going on… I just want answers,” Grantaire wrinkled his nose.  
  
Enjolras found himself emanating a low, heavy growl from the depths of his throat. He rubbed his eyes, exhausted and frustrated and confused all at once. And Enjolras being Enjorlas, the confusion made him even more frustrated.  
  
There was no winning in this situation.  
  
“And I don’t? Why are you being so dense? You know about the rest of the Amis, you know about the revolution… You know about Courfeyrac and Jehan. And Combeferre! What about him, for Christ’s sake? What about any of them?!” His throaty growl had trembled all the way through, crackling like a starving fire, yet he built his voice up, nearly screaming at Grantaire by the time he reached the final word.  
  
“I’m sorry, Monsieur,” Grantaire said softly, almost inaudibly. It barely caught Enjolras by the chin, nicked him, really, and wisped past him like a spring breeze. Grantaire gazed at Enjolras, his blue eyes huge, and he looked as though he was deeply sorry. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don‘t know any of those men.”  
  
“Look,” Enjolras said, refusing with every ounce of his being to believe Grantaire. Whether it was for his sake, or Grantaire’s, even I do not know. “Our friends have just died for something they believed in, something that was selfless and bright and glorious… which is more than can be said about you. The least you could do is acknowledge their lives.”  
  
“I’ve told you, I have no memories of you, I don’t know who you are. I don’t know your friends.” Grantaire was starting to raise his voice.  
  
“What are you—? You mean to say you don’t remember the ABC Amis?” Enjolras seemed to be skeptical and frantic at the same time.  
  
Grantaire shook his head, suddenly frightened and guilty, feeling as though he should know these things. “Look, since you seem to know so much about me, could you tell me my name?”  
  
Enjorlas strode across the room and grasped Grantaire’s arms so furiously Grantaire gasped. “Grantaire—”  
  
“Is that my name then?” He interrupted.  
  
Enjolras watched Grantaire for a moment more, searching his eyes for any means of a joke or a prank. Grantaire stared back at him with enormous blue eyes, the uncommon and undeniably intense feeling of both fear and panic swashing back and forth in the air between the two men . Slowly, his fingers loosened their grip.  
  
“You aren’t joking.” Enjolras whispered.  
  
“Of course I’m not joking.” Grantaire knitted his brow. “Do I know you?”  
  
And in that sentence, Enjolras felt his whole heart crash to his stomach, felt his lungs wither and cave in, felt his flesh go cold and clammy. He had no idea who Enjolras was. The years they had spent together or with their friends was gone. It had never happened. What a waste it was. He could’ve sworn he felt his skin crack along his neck and shoulders, felt every vertebrae in his spinal column lose its place and fall freely down through his torso, clanking and jingling against his pelvis…  
  
And if you asked him right then and there what had happened to his face, he might have told you that Grantaire had done it. He may have told you the short and devastating story of a dark-haired artist that had taken four simple words, sewn them together into a whip, and lashed it at Enjolras. And the words had clipped at his chin, struck his cheeks, sliced at his forehead, and snapped away had his nose, carving wounds deeper than he had ever had before.  
  
And in that moment, he realized that Grantaire had meant so much to him. He was so much more than a non-believer or a drunkard or a love-sick puppy. He was more notably, a friend to Enjolras at least, if not more.  
  
“Gran—,” Enjolras breathed, trying to gather himself together. He had felt that minor, slim moment of happiness when he had realized Grantaire was alive, realizing not everything near and dear to him was gone, slither from his fingertips.  
  
He realized he was wrong. Grantaire was already dead. He had been shot right out of this man’s body during the execution, leaving a hollow shell for this extraordinarily bizarre man to envelope and fill.  
  
“Yes,” He finally exhaled. “Yes. We were… good friends.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than the rest. Sorry about that. But more is coming up soon.  
> And not to be a review or Kudos whore, but I'm just letting you know:
> 
> Kudos = More chapters

The two of them ran from the café, Enjolras going ahead of Grantaire, leading him through the streets of Paris, finally ending up back at the other building they had taken shelter in only days before. The wind whipped at their hair, pulling it along their scalps and down into their eyes.  
  
Enjolras pressed himself up against the alley wall, a guardsman rearing the corner. He splayed his hands out and motioned for Grantaire to do the same.  
  
“What are you—?” He started.  
  
“Do it.” Enjolras ordered, and within a second, Grantaire had pressed his back against the wall just as the guard passed.  
  
When they were safe, the two of them made a run for the building, quickly rounding it and stomping up the stairs to the second floor.  
  
“Monsieur,” Grantaire breathed, creasing himself in half, breathing deeply from their run. “Please tell me: Why on earth should I trust you? Waking up in a destroyed building with an equally destroyed man hovering over me is not the nicest of situations.”  
  
Enjolras looked back at Grantaire over his shoulder. “I am not destroyed.”  
  
“You’re mildly close, my friend,”  
  
And Enjolras sat on the floor, his back to Grantaire. This was not right, this wasn’t how things were supposed to turn out. They were supposed to either win this fight or die trying. Living with this horrendous feeling was not an option.  
  
“If you don’t trust me,” Enjolras breathed. “You may go any time.”  
  
“I can’t just leave you.”  
  
“Why not? I am of no use to you. This is your chance to start anew, Grantaire, and you may want to.”  
  
Grantaire stepped forward, sitting down next to Enjolras on the dusty floor. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean you didn’t exactly love your life. You drank constantly and ranted about how we would fail in our revolution and I don’t even know why you came to our meetings.”  
  
Grantaire was silent for a moment, not even knowing how his own mind worked. “I… I’m sorry. All I can do is apologize.”  
  
“You need to forget about the ABC Amis, Grantaire. You need to move on with your life and take what you can.”  
  
“You were my friend. I can’t just leave a friend behind…” Grantaire paused for a moment. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Enjolras,” He whispered, his stomach churning. He thrust his fingers into his hair. How could this have happened? Grantaire had no clue who he was, hadn’t remembered that night from the second floor in that building when it was just two days ago.  
  
“Well, Enjolras,” Grantaire offered him a tired smile. “We will venture on. We can make it through this rut.”  
  
“You would stick by me? Someone you barely know?” He raised his head to look at the dark, curly-haired man.  
  
He smiled drowsily again. “Of course. I feel as though I should trust you.”

“You have no reason to,”  
  
“Who’s to say that?“  
  
“Me. You cannot trust someone you’ve just met. For all you know, I could be lying.”  
  
Grantaire considered this. “ _Touché._ Alright, if that is not reason enough for you, think of me sticking with you as a sort of gift. Perhaps I should stick with you since you’re the only one who knows of my past. Maybe in time I will eventually be able to call you my friend again.”  
  
 _There really is no way you’re shaking him any time soon_ , Enjolras thought to himself. _Grantaire is already devoted._   
  
Yet the decaying Enjolras would not falter. Still he came off as structured, unaffected. He would not let anyone see him crumble.  
  
“We need to get out of Paris, maybe even France all together.” Enjorlas said firmly.  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“Our names are not welcomed here, my friend.” Enjorlas walked over to the window and traced his fingers around the stubby candle that was still glued to its place on the windowsill from the wax. “We must go elsewhere.”  
  
Grantaire shrugged. “What about Poland?”  
  
He shook his head quickly. “That has been a very tense area lately. We can‘t risk Poland. For all we know, there could be another uprising tomorrow…”  
  
There was silence. And then there was Grantaire’s voice breaking through it: “Against whom?”  
  
“Russia.”  
  
Grantaire lifted an eyebrow and met Enjorlas’s eyes. And the two of them suddenly clicked.  


* * *

  
  
The few hours before they left were spent patting each other’s bodies down, looking for wounds that needed to be stitched up. And as Grantiaire’s nimble fingers found their way to Enjolras’s right shoulder, he shuddered, taking a sharp breath.  
  
Grantaire had watched him intently with enormous eyes. “Are you alright?”  
  
And Enjolras had nodded, refusing to look at those eyes. Instead, he took his left hand and gently outlined his right one, dipping in and out of his fingers, taking his mind off the pain.  
  
And it took a moment, but Grantaire had given Enjolras a gruff nod. They switched places, Enjolras splaying his hands all over Grantaire’s back and torso. And then he had found them: Eight rips right along the edges of Grantaire’s vest. He had fingered the holes, amazed.  
  
“Not a single bullet touched you…” Enjolras had whispered. “Not one… out of eight… You’re still alive… Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…”  
  
As amazing a stunt it was, Grantaire had given Enjorlas a small shake to regain his attention. “Bullets? I was shot at?!”  
  
Enjolras had not responded. “But… they still had enough force to knock you back… and… your head…”  
  
Grantaire took a step away, clasping his hands to the back of his curly scalp. “What’s wrong with my head?”  
  
But Enjolras had shaken the thought away and clasped Grantaire’s hand, leading him out of the second story building and down the makeshift stairs. Their feet hit the cobblestone streets…  
  
And they were off.


	5. Chapter 5

The weather was like walking through a storm of splinters and sand. There was no snow, no, not in the summertime, but still it was far too cold for anyone to be out and about in the thin clothing that Enjorlas and Grantaire had. The coldness seemed to shoot down from the sky and pierce their skin like daggers.  
  
Saying that Russia was cold was an understatement.  
  
And it took many days for them to get there. They hadn’t even kept track of how long it took, but still they ventured on. They quickly made their way through Germany and Poland in a matter of weeks, usually talking only back roads and dirt paths on their journey. They stopped shortly to purchase cloaks just on the edge of Germany, barely taking the time to learn how to speak the language, merely pointing to what it was they wanted.  
  
They kept their hoods up constantly, that was their rule. They didn’t need the villagers of other countries knowing who they were. The more alone they were, the better off.  
  
They lived off bread and a few fruits they found on orchard trees that they just so happened to come by. Grantaire was the one who had thought of it, climbing over the high-arched iron gate and dropping to the other side with a reassuring _thunk!_  
  
“How did you—?” Enjolras started. “You act as though you’ve done this before. It seems there are some things I don‘t know about you.”  
  
And Grantaire had smiled wide and shrugged. “That makes two of us.”  
  
Enjolras had grinned at this despite the sadness that it brought him because of the difficult truth that it was: Grantaire had been erased.  
  
Grantaire had quickly collected several apples from a nearby barrel and stuck them through the gate back to Enjolras. He climbed back over it stealthily and they were off.  
  
Their journey was quiet for the bulk of the time, but when they were on the deathly silent back paths with only the wind whistling through the leaves to make a noise, Grantaire would turn to Enjolras and ask him about his past. And Enjolras would frown but tell him anyway.  
  
He would always tell him something he wanted to know.  
  
When they arrived in Russia, they headed straight for the nearest house, knocking quietly on the door. There had been a crash of something breaking and a man’s harsh yell.  
  
They ran and did not return to that street.  
  
Deeper into Russia they delved, knocking on door to door, asking for a night in peace, a place to rest their heads. Each time there was either a hateful scowl and a door in their faces or a pitiful gaze and a quiet goodbye. The two wrapped their cloaks tighter around themselves and hurried away from street to street.  
  
Eventually, the two of them ran into a woman in the market square.  
  
Literally.  
  
She had been hugging her groceries closely, clinging to them so fiercely, when a distracted Grantaire bumped into her, sending her bread, cabbage, and grain fall to the dirt. She shook her head vigorously and swept down to pick them up.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Grantaire had said in French, which threw the woman off even more. She watched him with wide eyes, bewildered at what he must’ve been saying to her.  
  
“Ah…” Grantaire glanced back at Enjolras, then back to the woman. “Sorry?” He tried again.  
  
The woman stood, her groceries in her hands. She looked behind her, back at a scruffy-looking man about their age and waved him over quickly. He noticed her and obliged. Whispering something to her in Russian, she replied hastily, covering her mouth with her left hand so as to hide her lips. Suddenly the man smiled and walked up to Enjolras and Grantaire, shaking their hands.  
  
He explained that he had spent quite a bit of time in France long ago and that his wife had no clue what they were saying. They quickly apologized but took the opportunity to ask if they had any possible extra rooms, places to stay for the night. The man smiled a small smile, and nodded, leading his wife and the two men down a dirty alleyway and took a sharp right.  
  
And when Enjolras had asked for the man’s name, he said “Naum”. He had said it so happily than you could practically feel the smile on his lips. He lead Grantaire and Enjolras inside and down a narrow hallway, showing off a room to the left. As Enjolras tuned to enter the room, he coughed harshly, his whole body wracking with each hack, and fresh blood began to trickle from his shoulder that he had left to no proper medical care. He had simply wrapped several layers of torn cloth over the wound and went on his journey with Grantaire to Russia. How had he forgotten all about it?  
  
Naum’s wife stepped forward, placing her fingertips against Enjolras right shoulder, staining her skin with the brilliant shade of red. She knitted her brows together and said something to her husband gravely.  
  
He had nodded, leaving the room for a moment only to return with bandages, a needle, and thread.  
  
That first night was something left to be desired…  
  
By morning, Enjolras’s shoulder was aching and caked with the crust of dry blood. Grantaire had accompanied him to the market to get a few potatoes for Naum and his wife. The rest of the day was filled with quiet, painful groans and quite a lot of sitting in chilly rooms. Once the moon had risen, they settled down on the floor for the night, bundling their cloaks up to use as pillows. The chill of the wind seemed to slither up their shirts and down their collars until there was absolutely no warmth left for either man.  
  
“Why on Earth did I say Russia? Of all places!” Grantaire whispered furiously, shivering in the cold.  
  
Enjorlas remained quiet, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
“Enjolras?” Grantaire had asked over the silence.  
  
“I will fix you,” Enjolras had whispered back, his words weaving in and out through the darkness. “You are not broken. You can’t be that far gone.”  
  
There was the quiet pause that only death can recreate.  
  
“Enjolras—”  
  
“Spare me pity. I don’t want it. Just let me fix you.”  
  
Grantaire’s fingers found Enjolras’s in the night, tracing the outline of his fingers, curving in between each one, sharply squaring off the edges on Enjolras’s right hand…  
  
Sleep enveloped them.  
  
The third night they housed there, they had promised their loving host, Naum and his wife, that jobs would be found quickly. The two men stood in the cold marketplace for hours on end, presenting themselves worthy for jobs, claiming they were far healthier than what was true.  
  
And, finally, after nearly half a day of shouting until their voices were hoarse, an elderly woman with skin like parchment approached them, asking for someone to clean her chimney. The two men had exchanged silent glances of approval before following the woman.  
  
Her house was small and black, mashed up alongside several other houses that were equally as cramped and ugly. She had handed them each a straw broom, a lantern, and lengths of rope, grumbling about how upset she was that she couldn’t afford professionals.  
  
In time, Enjolras found his way up to the roof with Grantaire close behind. Both of them stared at the chimney with narrowed eyes.  
  
“Not me,” Grantaire claimed.  
  
And Enjolras slowly turned his head to meet Grantaire’s intensely bright blue eyes. “Oh, you’re going down the chimney, Grantaire.”  
  
“No, I’m not, pretty boy. That right there is the gateway to Hell.”  
  
And so Grantaire refused and Enjolras pushed on and on, certain that there was no way on this Earth that he was setting foot on that chimney.  
  
“No!” Grantaire half-yelled. You could hear the smile in his voice. “My God, were we always like this?”  
  
Enjolras tried not to let the sadness overcome him yet again. “Of course we were. You were the cynic in the corner, I was the leader on the table. We each had our drawbacks.”  
  
“My, my, aren’t you poetic, Monsieur Enjolras?” Grantaire teased. Enjolras closed his eyes, listening to Grantaire laugh, giving himself the smallest delight in believing things hadn’t really changed for a sliver of a second.  
  
His eye reopened. It would not do him well to dwell on the past and he knew it. “Now, give me your rope, you’re going down that chimney, so help me God…”  
  
A length of thick rope was fastened around Grantaire’s waist and he was lifted onto the top of the chimney, spreading his legs to keep himself from falling in just yet.  
  
“You had better start praying. I could die, you know,” Grantaired smirked.  
  
“I wouldn’t be that lucky,” Enjorlas had mused.  
  
More smiles. More tight grips around coarse rope.  
  
Grantaire saluted to Enjolras, the lantern gripped tightly in the opposing hand, and slowly helped lower himself into the depths of the chimney.  


* * *

  
  
The day was filled with half shouts back and forth between one another past layers of dirt and soot caked on the insides of the chimney that sounded something like this:

 **Grantaire:** How do I even do this? What do I do?

 **Enjolras:** It's like a broom. Just... scrap the soot off the chimney walls, I suppose.

 **Grantaire:** Pardon me?

 **Enjolras:** Just get rid of the soot, Grantaire!

 **Grantaire:** Now, now, no need to get irritated, _mon ami!_

And Enjolras would roll his eyes

There would be hollers of disgust and slight amusement from below Enjolras, to which he would quickly reply  with something neither encouraging nor harsh. But still Grantaire rattled on.  
  
 _I suppose he talks constantly no matter who he is_ , Enjolras thought.  
  
“I think I’ve about covered the base,” Grantaire’s voice came, rising with the light of the lantern. “Can you pull me up?”  
  
And Enjolras did just that.  


* * *

  
  
The elderly woman had smiled a yellowed, aged smile at both of the boys, pulling them into a hug, practically forcing them to bend over because of her height.  
  
Or lack thereof.  
  
She had squealed something delightful in Russian and handed them each a coin. Soot-covered and wheezy from breathing in dust all day, Enjorlas and Grantaire smiled, making heir way back to Naum’s.  
  
And in time, the boys became well-known. Yes, the finest chimney sweeps in all of Russia! There wasn’t a finer pair for the job! The French boys that cleaned chimneys and laughed about it. What a curious sight…  
  
But they only laughed for the sheer delight they got out of their shouted chats back and forth between one another past the bricks while they lay on top of roofs. The more chimneys they swept, the more time they got to spend together, which sounded alright to Enjolras.  
  
After three months of living on the outskirts of Klintsy and two and a half months on their own, they finally gathered enough money to purchase a small bed. There was an abhorrent glee in the air, both of them equally as happy to be free from sleeping on the hard wood of the floors.  
  
Yes, that single bed was their dream. Their only bliss.  
  
The only problem was within itself:  
  
It was a single bed.  
  
And there were two men.  
  
The very first night they managed to haul it back to their small living quarters the two of them stood on either side of the bed, contemplating their options.  
  
“We could trade off every other night,” Grantaire had suggested.  
  
And Enjolras had raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Don’t be silly. We can share it.”  
  
Grantaire shrugged. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through? We’re both men.”  
  
“And who’s to say we’re doing anything other than sleeping? And how on earth would they find out that we’d share a bed anyways?”  
  
Grantaire had shrugged and blown out their candle for the night. The darkness that filled the room suddenly made Enjorlas feel ill and nostalgic and homesick. He wanted nothing more than to return to Paris and Courfeyrac and Combeferre and the rest of his boys. This Enjolras that swept chimneys and tried to rebuild broken men was not the same Enjolras as four months ago.  
  
He felt the sudden urge to cry, his inner child suddenly desperate to spring forth. But no. Enjolras simply settled on the bed and closed his eyes, the familiar and vague sensation of Grantaire’s left leg curling over his right one.  
  
And Enjolras had said it again, his hard, determined look plastered on his face even in the black of the night: _I will fix you, Grantaire_.  
  
There was a tired sigh from his right. “Enjolras, you speak so well. You talk of better days and your words make me feel overjoyed… but could it be that you aren’t being realistic? How much did you care about me when I was younger and more of a pain in the ass? Did you really care?”  
  
Enjolras huffed. “I am not made of marble, Grantaire, I am no statue. I am capable of emotion.”  
  
“You’re also capable of being terrible.”  
  
The very words that Grantaire had said to him only months before came back to haunt him and soothe him at very same time that night. Enjolras held onto those words, that last slip of that old Grantaire he had left. He stared into the darkness, a warm sensation flooding him, an odd content feeling.  
  
“There you are,” He whispered proudly. He had been wrong about that old Grantaire. He was not completely gone, he was simply buried deep inside the new one’s mind, waiting to be dug free once more. And he was there, showing Enjolras right now that he was still there somewhere.  
  
That Grantaire was not completely useless. On the rare occasion when Enjolras found him sober, Grantaire actually made quite valid points, arguing freely and sinisterly. He was far from the pleasant cry of Enjolras’s golden tongue, but he was not worthless and he was not ignorant. Grantaire had been listening to their meetings all along. He had such potential; Enjolras had just been looking for that spark in the wrong place. That old Grantaire was a fighter.  
  
And he was fighting through now.  
  
Enjolras felt for the dark-haired man’s fingers under their cloth blanket in the night, resting his hand atop of Grantaire’s instead of holding it. They fell asleep with skin to skin.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naum:  
> Russian name with Hebrew roots  
> "Intelligent, sweetness, comforter"


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Enjolras was the first to wake. His hand had slipped away from Grantaire’s in the night, though he knew this would happen. Everybody moves in their sleep.  
  
He stood shakily from the single bed they shared and made his way over to the door, shoving his chilled feet into the boots he thought were his but couldn’t be sure about. He stretched out his creased bones and shook the midnight dust from his shoulders and walked back over to the bed.  
  
As soon as his palm touched Grantaire’s cheek, his eyes flicked open and he sprung up, his forehead nearly bashing into Enjorlas’s. He was soaked in a cold sweat. His hands were clammy.  
  
“Gran—” Enjolras started.  
  
“Who are you?” Grantaire asked viciously. It was a far cry from the scared tone he had taken with Enjolras when he had forgotten who he was nearly three and a half months ago.  
  
Enjolras sat on the edge of the bed, but Grantaire stood, shaking the coarse material of the blanket off of him. He stood on the opposite side of the bed, glaring at Enjorlas, his hands gripped into hard fists.  
  
“What do you mean?” Enjolras heart rate sped up and he could most definitely feel it. No. No. Grantaire had forgotten who he was once; playing this game and pretending he didn’t remember again was too much to take. “Stop this, we’ve already been over this!”  
  
“Who are you, for Christ’s sake?!” Grantaire yelled.  
  
Enjolras’s mouth went dry. “Enj… Enj…”  
  
“No. No. I don’t care who you are. Really, I don’t. Just tell me where the hell I am.”  
  
“K-Klintsy,” Enjolras had never before stuttered so much, especially not in front of Grantaire. What was becoming of him?  
  
“Klintsy?” Grantaire said the words slowly as though to taste the harsh syllables on his tongue. “Klintsy? There is no Klintsy in France.”  
  
“That’s because we’re not in France.” Enjolras said a bit too gravely.  
  
Grantaire narrowed his eyes at him. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean we’re in Russia, you dunce,” Enjolras spat. And for some odd reason, it felt normal, it felt familiar to hiss cruel words at Grantaire. But at the same time, it felt vile and horrid to do so. He hadn’t given Grantaire a sharp remark in so long…  
  
Grantaire bit his lip. “Why in God’s name am I in Russia? What did you do to me? Just yesterday I was in Paris in class and—”  
  
“It was not yesterday. Yesterday you were helping me clean Aleksandr Gribkov’s chimney.”  
  
“Stop being daft, I was just drawing landscapes with Alain and Fabrice. We were getting so frustrated over that one tree…”  
  
“I know, I know. You were an art student. You were spectacular. But believe me when I say that was years ago, not yesterday.” Enjolras stood from the bed slowly and made his was over to Grantaire as though he was walking on eggshells.  
  
“Was? _Was?_ I _still am;_ what are you talking about?” Grantaire shook his head, backing up as far as he could until his back hit the doorframe. “No. I don’t even know who you are, why should I trust you?”  
  
“You have no right to trust me, I know but—”  
  
“Stop this!” Grantaire clamped his eyes shut furiously and hit the wall beside him with an angry fist. “Stop now! I want to go home,”  
  
Enjolras did not falter. If anything, his scowl became even harder. He had to remind himself to not use profanity. “You don’t remember a thing then? Again? You’re gone all over again? Am I alone now?! Am I?!”  
  
Grantaire watched Enjolras intently with wild eyes. He had the odd air about him that suggested he was both frightened and irritated by the golden-haired man in front of him. He took a shallow breath and burst from the door, falling out into the September air of the Russian streets.

* * *

  
  
After sitting on the single bed alone, piecing together what had happened, Enjolras finally stood and gathered their supplies that they had bought with their own money long ago. The rope was looped over his shoulder, the right one that had been stabbed by a bullet not too long ago, though it felt like ages. The lantern with it’s fresh candle swung lifelessly in his grasp, the cap was nestled on top of his scalp, sealing in his glorious curls. His wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and grabbed one of the straw brooms that lay at the base of their bed, gliding out of the door, slamming it shut firmly.  
  
His Grantaire that he had tried to fix was gone yet again, replaced this time by one that seemingly hated him within five minutes of figuring out who he was. What was happening? Surely he did nothing to deserve this sort of torture…  
  
But he couldn’t just abandon this fresh, new Grantaire just because he was scared and despised what he did not understand.  
  
“Goddamn it, Enjolras,” He had whispered to himself as he made his way towards the center of town. He halted and spun back around on his heel. “You can’t save everyone.”  
  
 _But this is still Grantaire. He’s locked inside this new body is all…_  
  
“No,” He shook his head. “No. This will happened again. It’s already happened twice…”  
  
 _So you aren’t willing to help your friend? Someone whom you know is more than a friend no matter how much you try to deny it?_  
  
“Stop talking,” He whispered to himself again. A young couple with dark coats and a baby carriage gave him suspicious stares and walked past him briskly.  
  
 _You know I’m right. Just accept it. You need to help him, Enjolras. No one else will. How long will he last in a world where he knows no one, not even himself?_  
  
“For Christ’s sake…”  
  
 _Help him._  
  
“Am I supposed to silently suffer while he dies over and over again, only to come back and hate me even more than the last time?”  
  
 _You have to. This is who you are. You help the people. Grantaire is part of the people._  
  
“He’s a drunk bastard that can’t tell the difference between night and day,” Enjolras hissed.  
  
 _You’re mad. You hardly ever use vulgar language._  
  
“Of course I’m mad,”

 _You want to help him, you know you do._  
  
And he let a small, exasperated sigh fall from his lips. “I do.”  
  
 _You need to help him_.  
  
“I need to help him.”  
  
And help him he did. The rest of the day Enjolras scoured the city for Grantaire. He asked many citizens if they had seen him. He even paid a small street urchin that vaguely reminded him of Gavroche to help him look.  
  
But throughout the day, never once would he have thought to look in a pub. That Grantaire was two people ago, surely he wouldn’t be a drinker again…?  
  
But that’s just where that small boy that had been helping Enjorlas look had found him.  
  
Enjolras had stared through the window of the pub at the back of Grantaire’s curly head, then back down at the boy.  
  
“What’s your name, boy?”  
  
“Gavriil,” He had chirped.  
  
And Enjolras tossed him a coin. “Well done,”  
  
The boy sped off and Enjolras stepped inside.

* * *

  
  
“Ah, how are you, dear stranger?” Grantaire slurred at him. “Following me, are you?”  
  
“You need to come back.” Enjolras said firmly.  
  
“Now why on Earth would I do that?”  
  
“Because you must listen to me. You have to understand what’s going on here.”  
  
“Tell me who I am.” Grantaire said quietly, tapping his fingers against the edge of he bar table.  
  
“What?” Enjolras snapped.  
  
“Who am I?” Grantaire asked him yet again.  
  
“You…” Enjolras breathed deeply. This was not Grantaire. “You’re Gauthier.”  
  
“Gauthier. It had a ring to it. And you are?”  
  
“Enjolras.”  
  
“Well, Enjolras,” Grantaire stood from his stool and slapped a hand onto Enjolras’s right shoulder causing him to wince in pain. “It was lovely talking to you, but I best be off.”  
  
“Where in the world do you think you’re going?” He hissed again as Grantaire pushed past him for the door.  
  
And Grantaire had turned around. “Do you like it here, Monsieur?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Do you like it here in Klintsy?”  
  
Enjorlas hesitated, and then grasped Grantaire’s shirt collar, dragging him outside.  
  
“What does it matter?”  
  
“Just answer my question.”  
  
“I… No. This place is terrible. It’s awful. Have you seen how these people are being treated? And the prices people demand! It’s outrageous! Not to mention— What?”  
  
Grantaire had begun to chuckle. “Ah, you’re one of those men!”  
  
“Explanations are always nice,”  
  
“You’re a people person, dear Enjolras! The rebel, the revolutionary!”  
  
Enjorlas shuddered and Grantaire went on. “You obviously know me. Let’s leave Klintsy. You and I both find this place revolting.”  
  
“And just where do you suggest we go?" Enjolras’s eyes rolled in his skull.  
  
“I remember… studying several places down south. Rome, Piacenza, Milan, Naples…”  
  
Enjolras stared at him for a moment. “No. Absolutely not. We’re needed here more than ever. Look at these people, Gauthier! They are in no way possible to live under this cruel treatment much longer.”  
  
“The people will do what they need to do. We must worry about ourselves.”  
  
“We’re supposed to leave them here? Leave them to fend for themselves? Klintsy is only a small portion of what is really happening here. There is so much injustice. You can’t expect me to—”  
  
“Yes,” Grantaire breathed. “I do. I understand your impulse to help these people, but they are not yours to worry about…”  
  
“You would rather run off and just forget all of this?” Enjolras’s eyes flared.  
  
And it would take some time, yes. It would take two more days of arguing in a cold room in Klintsy, with Enjolras taking the bed for himself, leaving the floor to Grantaire. It would take some time, but Enjolras finally gave in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gauthier — When under stress, you can become overbearing and belittling in your attitude to others, and inclined to express sarcasm and temper
> 
> Also, in case anyone was wondering, this is most likely what they would have looked like during their jobs: http://www.retronaut.com/2012/03/potraits-of-russian-types-late-1800s/chimney-sweep/


	7. Chapter 7

Ah, yes. He had taken classes back in Paris with whom he considered his friends, but in hindsight, they were hardly even acquaintances. He couldn’t remember any of their faces, just names. He remembered them vaguely calling him something beginning with a G.  
  
And he remembered that they had studied the slope of several southern cities quite often.  
  
It had remarkable color combinations too, colors you wouldn’t even imagine being able to make something beautiful together.  
  
In Fall there were the ranges of reds that hung loosely on tree branches. Shades of all sorts, ranging between the brilliant crimson leaves and the dull, nearly black ones that had long ago crumpled up and curled in on themselves. And the browns. You wouldn’t take brown to be an outstanding color, but there it was, just as bright and vivid as any of the other colors.  
  
In Spring there were the pastels. The soft yellows and the delicate blues and the dimmed greens. Spring was that beautiful, delicate creature that you had to keep comfortable and safe no matter what. It was something you cared for. Something you deeply loved.  
  
In Summer, all of the colors were wild and racy and popped out at you. The reds whizzed past you, the oranges burned bright, and the greens were as brilliant as possible. And the blues! God, the blues…  
  
In Winter the harsher tones came out. The jerky grays, the rigid whites, the jagged violets… Everything seemed to have that light, sort of blue tint to it, which was seemingly difficult to create on a painting.  
  
And Gauthier had wanted nothing more than to paint this man that God had placed in front of him. It would seem as though he had chipped himself away from the ceilings of churches or managed to pull himself free from Heaven itself.  
  
 _Enjolras._  
  
Gauthier rolled the name around in his mouth, tasting it. And it tasted glorious.  
  
But there was that edge to him that nearly frightened Gauthier. He had woken him up with a start and spoken to him harshly, screaming at him about something that was obviously quite important to him, but Gauthier hadn’t listened. He was far too shocked to realize that not only had he slept in the same bed as a man, but that he was in Russia and he didn’t have a clue what was going on.  
  
It was a bizarre sensation, as though you had been sleeping for a bit too long and someone had woken you up only to tell you that you weren’t a girl, you were a boy.  
  
The confusion had been too much. Gauthier had bolted from the small, one-room shack that the golden-haired boy had managed to call home. But as he stumbled along the streets of Klintsy, diving into a pub, he couldn’t take his mind off that man.  
  
His fingers trembled. His hands quivered. His body began to ache, he wanted to paint the boy so badly. He longed for a brush. He yearned for some charcoal.  
  
And, as if on cue, he had barged through the door of the bar and stalked right up to Gauthier and told him to listen.  
  
Of course he would listen. He could not deny himself the simple pleasure of listening to an angel when it spoke to him. In all reality, who would? But as he talked, Gauthier studied him endlessly: Learned the curve of his jaw, watched his lips form his name, gazed at that hair — My God, that hair — and learned the contours of that magnificent face.  
  
… And he had that sudden urge, that odd sensation, that he knew him all too well. That he had been studying him his whole life. That this was not the first time he had watched the angel in action.  
  
Then he had learned that name:  
  
 _Enjolras._  
  
And he held the word in his mouth for quite some time. The name felt safe in his mouth.  
  
Suddenly, the two of them were making plans to run away. Yes, to the places he had painted so long ago. That place of beautiful colors and even more beautiful landscapes.  
  
And what a more beautiful person to travel with?

* * *

  
  
Gauthier breathed heavily as the two men hunched over themselves in a carriage that had agreed to take them to their halfway point in exchange for nearly all their money.  
  
Enjolras gazed at him across the empty space in the carriage. There was something sad about his eyes. “So? Why did we settle on going south, my friend?”  
  
Gauthier found himself smiling quietly, tilting his head down to play with his fingers. “I need to do this. I have to. If I can paint one picture while I’m there with you, I think I could die happily.”  
  
Enjolras nodded gravely and turned to look to the window.

* * *

  
  
They had been dumped off on the outskirts of Gyor in Hungary. It would take seven more days for them to finally slip into Austria, their cloaks hugging their shoulders and their hoods shadowing their faces.  
When they arrived, they were instantly greeted by the rays of heat that shone down on the city of Verona. Gauthier was surprised he hadn’t noticed the subtle changes in the weather during their entire travel.  
  
Quickly, he slipped the heavy cloak off his shoulders and slung it over his left shoulder. He walked ahead of Enjolras, weaving his way through the rowdy marketplace as though he had done it a million times over.  
  
Verona was everything he had expected it to be: Men called out to passerby’s trying to sell their wares, women laughed and chatted with one another, allowing their energetic children to bounce about, whizzing through the slender legs of adults, yelling at one another to keep up. And the colors. The colors were more exciting and beautiful than Gauthier could have ever dreamt.  
  
Gauthier glanced back at Enjolras over his shoulder. “This is where Shakespear’s _Romeo and Juliet_ took place, you know,”  
  
Enjolras rolled his eyes, pulling his hood down. “I’m not a half-wit, Grantaire,”  
  
Gauthier halted, spinning on his heel to face his friend. “Who’s Grantaire?”  
  
Enjolras stared at him a moment, gazing at him as though he should know exactly who this Grantaire fellow was. It took him a minute to wipe the abashed, befuddled look off his face. “Ah… Grantaire was a friend of mine back in Paris. You just look quite a bit like him is all,”  
  
Gauthier laughed heartily and slipped between two street vendors to get out of all the commotion. “What a handsome friend,”  
  
Enjolras did not smile. “You would have liked him…”  
  
“Would I now?” Gauthier hopped from the street to a rock on his right, rising above Enjolras by a good foot. He hopped to the next one, his eyes cast downward to watch his feet. “Tell me about him.”  
  
Enjolras froze again, the same petrified, disoriented look plastered on his face. “I… Well, he… ah… He painted. Yes. He painted quite a bit.”  
  
“Was he any good?”  
  
Enjolras’s jaw tightened and he lifted himself up to the rock behind Gauthier. “Yes. He was extraordinarily good. He used charcoal a lot.”  
  
“Did he ever sketch you? Try to capture that angelic face?” Gauthier turned around and back-stepped onto the next rock in the line. There seemed to be a chain of rocks extending the length of the street.  
  
Enjolras finally let a small smile stain his lips. “I don’t think so, but he may have and never showed me. Grantaire wasn’t one to share his drawings with me.”  
  
Gauthier cocked an eyebrow. “Why do you suppose that is?”  
  
Enjolras shrugged, stepping onto the next rock. “I suppose I was always quite hard on him. I was hard on many people, but no one more so than him. He was a good soul, I believe. Yes. That’s one thing I’m certain of. He was definitely a good soul.”  
  
“ _Was?_ Do mean he’s—?” Gauthier choked out, a sudden rush of guilt flooding over him for some reason.  
  
Enjolras nodded. “But he’s ok now. I know he is.”  
  
“So you’re a Christian then? A firm believer?”  
  
“I…” He paused, watching his feet as he took yet another step onto the rock that was just one in front of Gauthier. “I suppose I used to. Yes, God was always on my shoulder. But Grantaire was a non-believer and I suppose I get what he had always known — once you have nothing left in your life, there is no reason for frivolities and stories that have no backbone to keep you afloat. You can’t rely on fables to keep your heart pumping.”  
  
He shook his head and laughed. “I used to think he was unable to comprehend anything, that he simply refused to believe in anything because he was stubborn and foolish… But I was wrong. He had a single belief and a single fantasy. It was the only thing holding him together and I understand that now.”  
  
“Enjolras… are you crying?” Gauthier balanced on his toes to try and get a better look at his friend, but when he turned the opposite way fiercely, he settled back onto his soles.  
  
“Of course not. Just… know that Grantaire was a good man, alright? He was wonderful before his drink hooked him by the throat and dragged him under. He was a pest, yes,” And he shook his head again, smirking to himself and wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. “He was a mandatory pest that was not exactly wanted by me while he was there, but in all reality, I needed him desperately. I still do. I need him so badly it feels like my chest will collapse.”  
  
Gauthier was growing worried. This kind of sadness he spoke of did not sound too foreign to him. In fact, it sounded quite normal, as though he had bathed in that kind of sorrow his whole life. His head throbbed, pounding in his ears. His forehead suddenly went cold.  
  
“You’re a good soul,” He heard Enjolras mutter. “I know you are.”  
  
Gauthier clasped a palm to his aching forehead. The world spin on its axis far quicker than what was safe. Verona was on wheels.  
  
“Enjolras… I feel faint.” He clamped his eyes shut viciously, turning on his heel, bouncing on three more rocks before turning to his left and stumbling onto what he thought was the street. “Goddamn it,”  
  
“What’re you—? Grantaire, _no!_ ” His final word was spoken so quickly, so harshly, Gauthier stopped in his tracks and simply let himself fall to the ground right there. Soft hands grabbed his forearms and dragged his backwards and he found himself leaning up against the rocks yet again.  
  
“You… You keep calling me by his name,” Gauthier groaned, his head furiously pounding away.  
  
“That was the _road_ , imbecile,” Enjolras spat. “You can’t just walk out in front of a path full of horses.”  
  
“You keep calling me Grantaire,” Gauthier moaned again, ignoring Enjolras’s words. “ _Why?_ Why do you do that?” This wasn’t making any sense. Why had his head suddenly begun to ache? And Enjolras, why was he so forgetful with Gauthier’s name? He had known him for nearly two weeks and this was the first time — no, the second — that he had been labeled “Grantaire”.  
  
His palms began to sweat. Breathing suddenly felt like such a chore. “I’m _Gauthier_ … Gauthier…” He repeated, the name loosing breath and meaning each time he said it.  
  
He closed his eyes and suddenly the name was gone.  
  
Gauthier was no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason I'm referring to the name Gauthier so much when it's in Grantaire's point-of-view during his chapter is because that's what he knows himself as - Gauthier.
> 
> So. In case you weren't sure (though I don't think anyone is that dense)  
> Gauthier = Grantaire


	8. Chapter 8

_Piacenza._  
  
The word came to him slowly and soothingly. It seemed to slip in one ear and out the other. He hardly even registered the syllables, only bothering to listen to the curls of the vowels as they rolled off the tongue of someone he did not recognize.  
  
_Piacenza._  
  
It was all very vague. Everything, not just the word. The language it was in was not that of his native tongue, he knew that much. What was he again? French?  
  
He couldn’t see anything, though he didn’t know this was because his eyes were closed or he had simply gone blind. The possibility of the latter was horrifying therefore he chose not to think about it too much.  
  
There was something resting on his forehead. It was boney and quite slick, and it took him a moment to realize it was merely the back of someone’s hand, most likely checking his temperature.  
  
He tried to spit out a word or two, anything, anything at all, but they lodged themselves in his throat and he ended up choking on the possibilities of his sentence.  
  
“Don’t,” A voice commanded him. “You’re in no state…”  
  
The voice trailed off. It was commanding, but not harsh. Soft.  
  
Perhaps he should have been worried. There was someone looming over him, ordering him not to speak. He could not see.  
  
He did not know who he was.  
  
“I’m…” He rasped out slowly, fear suddenly grabbing him by the throat and wringing his neck. “I’m…”  
  
But no names would come to him. There were no hints at who he was. He shut his eyes as hard as he possibly could and brought a pair of fists up to his head. His fingers found their way into his hair, a mop of thick, curly locks, and he pulled on them slowly, as though he this would somehow help him remember his own name.  
  
“Who…?” He whispered into the void in front of him. His throat ached something terrible, his tongue dry and rough.  
  
“I know,” The voice hummed. “Your name is Gilles. Don’t be afraid now, alright? You’ll be better by morning,”  
  
“Morn… Morn…” His head ached, his brain knocking against either side of his skull. What was this agony? “What?”  
  
“I’ve already told you, now. I know you don’t know who you are. Your name… Gilles… paintings and… beggars… Paris…”  
  
Gilles only caught odds and ends of whatever it was the man that towered over him was trying to say. Paris? Was he from Paris?  
  
Yes, yes, that must have been it. Paris was in France…  
  
A vague sense of nostalgia washed over him.  
  
Or perhaps it was just the heat of the room. There was a loud pop in Gilles left ear and the underside of his eyelids lit up in an orange fury.  
  
“Combeferre… hypochondria… eight times… Piacenza…” The soothing voice went on.  
  
_Piacenza._  
  
The name rested on his tongue comfortably.  
  
He coughed jerkily and tried to sit up, but the voice had arms, and it told him to lie back down. What had he been laying on? It was far too stiff to be a bed, but entirely too warm to be any sort of stone roadway.  
  
Gilles kept his eyes closed, waving his right hand across what it was he had been lying on.  
  
“Wood…” He choked out. “Wood… Am I… the floor?”  
  
There was silence and then, “Yes. Yes, I laid you on the floor.”  
  
“Where…?”  
  
“In the back room of a tavern. The owner’s wife had insisted,”  
  
Gilles swallowed hard. Why had everything suddenly become so difficult?  
  
“Who…? Name…?”  
  
“Me?” The voice sounded surprised.  
  
And Gilles had nodded. Goddamn it, he needed to see. It was overwhelmingly frustrating, all of it. Talking had taken on the same difficulty as riding a bull while eating a large lunch, a large slab of iron had been mounted on his chest, forcing his breaths to become shallow and painful, and someone had taken a shovel to his head. And while moving his limbs was easy enough, he had nothing to graze or touch except for the wood of the floor. Seeing was not an option. His eyes, it seemed, had been sealed shut.  
  
“Enjolras,” The voice came again. This time, it breathed the name heavily, as though it had said it a million times.  
  
“You sound… sad,”  
  
There were various rustling noises that filled the uncomfortable silence. “Yes, well, I suppose it comes with the job. Now, really, you should try to rest,”  
  
Gilles shifted on the floor, turning on his side to face what he suspected to be the fire. The warmth drew him in and repelled him at the same time. The room was so stuffy, so overly hot, yet his skin felt as slick as water.  
  
He extended a shaky hand towards the fire.  
  
“What’re you—? No. No, Gilles, that’s a fire. Really, just calm down and stop shifting. You need to rest.” Strong hands grasped his and recoiled his arm.  
  
There was that small voice in his head. It lingered.  
  
_Don’t trust him. You’ll be asleep one minute and dead in a ditch the next._  
  
_But he’s helping me, isn’t he? Isn’t he? I must have been out for quite some time. If he wanted to do me harm, don’t you think he would have done it by now?_  
  
_Don’t go to sleep._  
  
_I’m so tired._  
  
_You can’t afford to sleep._  
  
_It’s so warm in here._  
  
_Stop it!_  
  
_I need sleep._  
  
_He’ll kill you._  
  
_He’ll heal me…_  


* * *

  
  
Gilles shifted once more, though this time it was more animated and almost violent. He kicked against the air above the floor, startling himself awake. His whole body was thrust forward. His hands grasped at the air and pulls at the strings of oxygen.  
  
He had fallen asleep, hadn’t he? No, no, had he not specifically told himself not to let his guard down? Hadn’t he stated how dangerous it was to be so vulnerable around someone he didn’t even know the face shape of?  
  
The room was as cold as death by then, the warmth of the fire extinguished along with its flame.  
  
“Whoa, whoa,” The same voice soothed him. It caressed his ears delicately. Had God really created such a voice for man, or had it mistakenly fallen to Earth from His grasp as He handed it over to the angels? And the man’s hands… they silently found their way to his shoulders, nudging his back down towards the ground slowly and precisely.  
  
“I need up,” Gilles voice was rough, something like the edges of coal or the frigid bite of winter wind against warm skin compared to the man’s, but it was returning all the same. His throat was not closed anymore. His mouth no longer tasted like ashes and dust.  
  
_What had the man’s name been again? Emile? Evariste?_  
  
“No, really, Gilles, stay down. I don’t know what illness you have, but it’s obvious it’s there… Let me think…”  
  
“You need… I need up,” Gilles scrunched his eyes shut fiercely, a cold shiver slithering up his spin and knocking against his hollow skull. The pain… The pain was overwhelming…  
  
But what was the boy’s name? This was one of Gilles top priorities at the moment. That, and trying to find some way for the man with the angelic voice to let him sit up. He feared the coarse grain of the wood and the stiffness of the boards would break his back in half before the headaches could kill him.  
  
_Perhaps it was Enzo…_  
  
“Gilles, listen to me when I say you are ill. Lie down.”  
  
“It… It hurts,” he choked out. What he needed was water.  
  
There was a pregnant pause. And then:  
  
“Gilles, open your eyes.”  
  
“I… can’t.”  
  
“I assure you, you can. Please. Just open your eyes.”  
  
There were several small efforts of Gilles gliding his fingers softly over his eyelids, hoping to open them, but they were all in vain. A sudden surge of panic swept over him, engulfing him in terror yet again.  
  
What if he had gone blind?  
  
“It will be fine,” The voice cooed. “I promise you. Open your eyes.”  
  
_Evrard?_  
  
The small rubs, pokes against his eyes had become mildly violent, his fingers now viciously rubbing at his eyes.  
  
Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, was he tired. What he wouldn’t do for a cot right then…  
And there wasn’t much to see at first. No, nothing at all. A jut in his vision, a heaping mass of grey matter with several hues of blue blotching the room. The scenery was a bit more than Gilles had been ready for — heaps of drapes dangled from the heights of the ceiling and cascaded down to the dusty floor, shadowing the window behind it. The air was black, it seemed. It was somber and heartbreaking and eerily depressing.  
  
And his eyes began to focus, and it’s quite remarkable that they did, adjusting themselves to the shadows of the room and the deeply contrasting red of a certain man’s jacket.  
  
His face was something that hadn’t belonged on such an undeserving Earth. It should have stayed where it was in the wisps of the cloud cotton and the waves of the sky. He belonged somewhere far above our ungrateful heads, nestled in a toga and halo, his face beaming in glory and his whole body giving of the essence of victory. That is where he belonged. That is where he needed to be.  
  
But instead, here he was, his icy fingers burning in the freezing room, his eyes dark in color, yet bright in spirit and his furiously curly hair disheveled and untidy, hanging off his forehead in and exhausted manner.  Red-rimmed eyes. Skin like porcelain. A small curve on his lips, as though he had just heard something half-amusing, but decided to hold his ground and not laugh at it.  
  
His pink-tipped fingers settled on Gilles’s cheek, his face suddenly burning, yet he continued to stare at the man. This beauty was so painfully familiar. It almost reminded him of…  
  
“Apollo.” He breathed, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. “That’s… who you are,”  
  
The man recoiled, a bit surprised. “I… No. Enjolras, remember?”  
  
Gilles tenderly laid a hand atop of Enjolras’s. “Right. Right, of course…”  
  
“I told you that nearly two days ago,”  
  
Gilles shook his head. “Two days? No, no, I wasn’t asleep for that long.”  
  
“To be frank, it was nearly three. The start of tomorrow would have been your third. Your bones seem to be quite tired.”  
  
Gilles shook his head and shoved his face into his palms. Three days?  
  
“What are you?” Gilles muffled from his doughy hands.  
  
Enjolras somehow found this amusing and chuckled in the darkness. “I’m only human. I found you on the road. You were ill and needed help.”  
  
“Why did you help me? I’m no load to shake off your shoulders…”  
  
The silence was uncomfortable and almost unbearable. “Yes, you are. You are my responsibility. The sooner you understand that, the better.”  
  
Gilles shook his head again in confusion and threw himself back onto the floor, his eyes glaring at the ceiling. “Explain this to me, Enjolras. Really, what are you?”  
  
“I’m what you get when you’re simultaneously restless and furious and passionate for something that cannot happen,” Enjolras huffed out, the angelic voice somewhat disheartening and bittersweet. “The offspring of dreams and idealism perhaps. Or maybe I’m just a sad boy after all."  
  
Gilles sat up, suddenly significantly more relaxed. “Or perhaps you're just a poet,”  
  
Enjolras smiled again, small and sad. “I’m no poet. I knew a poet once. He was quite good, you see. He deserved to be published, you know, he really did. His words were made of silver… But he died the wrong way,”  
  
“What… what do you mean?” Gilles voice shook.  
  
“I mean he was dragged to the wrong side. He did not die where he should have. He was killed like a dog.” Enjolras’s eyes glazed over, an abhorrent hardness washing over him. “But that isn’t a subject that needs discussing, now is it? How do you feel?”  
  
Gilles’s hands made their way up to his skull, seizing it up a bit, stroking the surface of his curls, searching for any sort of lump. He then tentatively wrapped his fingers around his throat, and swallowed.  
  
“I suppose I’m alright,”  
  
Enjolras nodded firmly. “Good. I’ll go get you some water in a bit. Is there anything else you need?”  
  
His hands trembled. He found himself tracing over the outline of Enjolras’s jaw line over and over again without hesitation. He gazed at each curl, followed each hair as if it were a brush stroke.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Enjolras’s eyes widened a bit. “What do you need?”  
  
Gilles handed him a wide grin. “Some charcoal.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, sorry, guys. This one's kind of long...

Grantaire did get his charcoal, yes, but I’m 98% sure that’s not first on your list of priorities right now, is it?  
  
Well, in any case, the charcoal was gladly given to him by an Enjolras that he had met only twenty-four hours earlier in a dry, hot, darkened room just behind a tavern in Verona. And when questioned, he had only said he’d _found it_.  
  
Gilles had grinned widely. “Is that what we’re calling stealing now?”  
  
Enjolras held up a finger. “There was no stealing involved, Gilles,”  
  
But Gilles only shook his head.  
  
 _He liked this man._  
  
“I need to know something, Gilles,” Enjolras had whispered then, “Are you coming with me?”  
  
And Gilles had been partially shocked. “What? I… I… where are you going?”  
  
“I was thinking Piacenza. I need to get out of Verona. There are plagues of rotten memories here…”  
  
Gilles shifted on the ground, half-smirking. “Ah, so that’s where Piacenza came from… But why would you want me to come along with you? Some poor bastard you found on the roadway who doesn’t even know who he is…?”  
  
“I know who you are. You simply have momentary amnesia. I can assure you you’ll be fine.”  
  
“You… know who I am?” He had felt his heart rise to his throat.  
  
Enjolras nodded, his hair moving in a way that seemed inhuman. “We were… friends,”  
  
“Why should I trust you?”  
  
Enjolras gazed at him for a moment before doing quite the opposite of what Gilles expected — he turned his head slightly to the right and shook it, laughing quietly, as if Gilles had no idea what he had gotten himself into. “Again with trustworthiness… If I had tried to hurt you, wouldn’t I have done it by now?”  
  
Gilles was quiet for a minute, the silence draping itself over him like a sheet. It creased around his arms and nestled into his crooks and glided over his shoulders. He then looked up at this Enjolras, a man whom he had no reason to trust but certainly felt obligated to.  
  
And he nodded.  
  
He had been handed a cloak and a pair of black boots. They exited the back of the tavern quickly as crisp air bit at their cheeks, flushing their faces red. Their hair was disheveled. Their eyes were heavy. Their hearts were high.  
  
But walking out onto the dirt roadway did something to Gilles. It was Enjolras. He did something to him. He stepped on his heart and poked holes in his lungs with every step he took. His strides were long and confident, the air about him seemingly sharper somehow.  
  
Gilles feet stumbled. Enjolras’s strode.  
  
Gilles fingers fidgeted. Enjolras’s clamped firmly along the seams of his cloak.  
  
Gilles felt as though he was being strangled, though God only knows why.  
  
But Heaven knows he never would have guessed this firm and steady Enjolras had the same noose around his neck.

* * *

  
“Won’t you use that charcoal, already?” Enjolras had asked one day as they sat on the edge of the river, their feet curled up in the crooks of their knees, their legs crossed over one another. “It’s going to ware out if you just keep touching it and stuffing it in your pockets all the time, you know,”  
  
Grantaire glanced up at him from gazing mindlessly at the charcoal and smiled, leaning back. “Ah, you see I would, but I have quite the dilemma. One, I don’t have anything to use it on. And two, I don’t have a muse.”  
  
“Well, you’d better find your muse quick,” Enjolras shook his head and grabbed an apple from his pocket. “I didn’t go through all that just to get you that charcoal for nothing,”  
  
Grantaire smirked. “I thought you said you _found it_?”  
  
And Enjolras had smiled, his heart heavy. This was his Grantaire. His old, beautiful Grantaire that shone out at times. Sometimes it took him by surprise, and other times he gradually reappeared in the face of Gilles, but never did he dislike the rare visits he got from him. If anything, they made the sun shine a little bit brighter each time.  
  
“Come on,” Enjolras hopped up from his sitting position. “We need to find somewhere to sleep for the night.”

* * *

  
For several months and an odd amount of weeks, the two of them could have been labeled as vagabonds, their cloaks clinging to their shoulders and their red-tipped fingers grasping their only belongings — a piece of black charcoal and a few fruits.  
  
The south began to sound more and more inviting to Enjolras as time went on. They walked their way out of Austria and spiraled downward into the small collection of city-states that held foreign names. Once, Grantaire had even asked why they hadn’t bothered to learn the language as they passed through town after town.  
  
And Enjolras had shrugged, saying it was unnecessary.  
  
“Now because you said that, something is going to come along and force us to learn this language,” Grantaire laughed. “You’ve gone and jinxed us,”  
  
Enjolras shook his head. “What could that possibly be?”  
  
“I’m not sure… Maybe if we tried to actually settle down somewhere for a long period of time and would need to discuss living matters,”  
  
“Don’t be silly, we won’t be down here for that long.”

* * *

  
If there was ever a moment in history for Enjolras to be wrong, this was certainly the time. Grantaire had complained about running around for so long, and by the time Piacenza was met with, he was practically begging Enjolras to stay.  
  
“I wouldn’t imagine you’d understand, Enjolras,” Grantaire huffed, kicking a stone along the roadway.  
  
“Try me,” Enjolras squinted against the sunlight.  
  
It took him a while to grasp the words, to really lodge them out of his throat and hurl them forward before he regretted it. “Have you even bothered to slow down and look while we’ve been here? Have you? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Enjolras, this place is beautiful, almost mind-numbingly so, and it’s irritating the hell out of me that I can’t find any place in town where I could get paints. In all honesty, this isn’t my first uncontrollable urge to paint something far beyond my talent. It seems to be an unfortunate habit of mine — admiring things from afar and capturing them for myself. Of course, with you things would be much more tenuous. I’d be much more of a perfectionist if it came down to trying to get that jaw line right and that hair and your eyes. God, _your eyes_ , Enjolras…”  
  
There was an almost stunned silence from the opposing end as Grantaire took in a large breath and held it, terrified of how Enjolras may react, he assumed.  
  
That had been him. He had been there. And staring at him in that minute, Enjolras wanted nothing more than to pull him close and breathe in his scent and just fall to the ground. He wanted to cry into those curls. He wanted to curl his fingers around Grantaire’s wrists and just hold on for dear life.  
  
Perhaps he had been wrong so many months ago back in Paris. Perhaps he had answered on a feverish impulse when Grantaire had called him a broken man and he had snapped back, making a very solid point that he was not broken, just bent. Perhaps he had lied to Grantaire, maybe even himself, and had been dragging that lie on his back for almost a year…  
  
My God, had it really been a year without his old Grantaire? Had the rebellion slipped away into the back of his mind without him knowing? Had he forgotten to keep track of how long ago his friends had perished?  
  
Perhaps he _was_ broken…  
  
“Grantaire,” Enjolras had finally whispered, though he knew before the name had even left his lips that Grantaire would have no clue to whom he was referring to. He knew it. Oh, yes, he knew it. But it needed to be said, because this right here was as close as he would ever get to that man that he had learned to adore so long ago.  
  
And so he whispered it again, this time letting it catch with the breeze and carry it over the Grantaire’s ears.  
  
And, of course, the expression of confusion had slapped itself across his face. “I’m sorry?”  
  
 _I said “Grantaire”. It’s your name. It’s your name, you’ve got to know it. It’s who you are, it’s your label that shows all that you’ve been through. You were an artist and a cynic and were far too pessimistic and I won’t even start on your drinking problem, but that’s who you were and I loved it, Grantaire. I loved it. You were a challenge and I found it irritating at the time, but how could I know what I was losing? How on Earth could I possibly know how much you meant to me?_  
  
But instead be simply breathed, “Nothing,” and gazed at the ground.  
  
“I’m sorry, Enjolras, I shouldn’t have said anything.” He cast his eyes downward, ashamed, his face going ashen. His hands began to fumble with the stick of charcoal yet again.  
  
“Believe me, Gilles, it was begging to be said.” Enjolras stepped across the open space that blocked the two of them and pulled Grantaire into a strong embrace that he had longed to do for weeks by that time.  
  
Grantaire huffed out a surprised breath and slowly folded his arms over Enjolras’s shoulders.  
  
Eventually, Enjolras pulled away, coughing, covering up what had just happened.  
  
“Right. We should find somewhere to stay for a while.”  
  
“Not the back of a tavern?” Grantaire mused.  
  
“Not the back of a tavern.” Enjolras had affirmed.

* * *

  
In time, an opening was found just on the outskirts of Piacenza. A kind, plump woman with a red face and a husband with more scars than what seemed healthy dancing across his face.  
It had been another lie, for their resting place was the back end of a tavern with yet another single bunk and a single window. And because of their lack of money, the two of them had agreed to run small errands for the couple until they found official jobs.  
  
And when they were shown the back room, Enjolras’s stomach dropped a bit, and he felt his eyes roll involuntarily. “Ah, another single cot yet again,”  
  
Grantaire waltzed inside, placing the stick of charcoal on the window sill. “Another? What do you mean?”  
  
“Hm, just bantering is all… Well, now, how will we arrange this then?”  
  
Grantaire turned back around to face Enjolras and the bed, shrugging. “We could both use it,”

* * *

  
Grantaire squirmed in the night, Enjolras wondering how on Earth he had managed to forget what a restless sleeper Grantaire was. He shifted again in the darkness, flipping over onto his back.  
  
“There’s a gap somewhere inside me, Enjolras,” He whispered.  
  
Enjolras turned his head to the right, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see him through the murky blackness. “What?”  
  
“I’m empty… or, at least, half-empty. I’m only half-a-person, Enjolras. How can you deal with half-a-person?”  
  
“I deal with you just fine,”  
  
“I mean on a larger scale,” Grantaire rustled again. “I was a person before this amnesia, wasn’t I? Wasn’t I from France? Did you know me then?”  
  
Enjolras swallowed hard. He wanted to forget about the past, not exhume it. But, reluctantly, he nodded. “Yes. Yes, I knew you.”  
  
“Won’t you tell me then? You’ve stuck with me all this time, do I not deserve to hear my past?”  
  
“You’re right, I suppose. It isn’t a story filled with dandelions and sunshine, though,”  
  
“You say that as though I expected it was,”  
  
“To be frank, you were a mild pain in the ass. You showed up to my meetings drunk a good portion of the time, and always criticized our beliefs. My God, were you cynical…”  
  
There was a heavy pause on the opposing end, and then Grantaire slowly and stealthily slipped his hand around Enjolras’s.  
  
“I’m sorry,”  
  
“Don’t apologize.” It came out as more of an order than anything.  
  
“I… I’m sorry,”  
  
“Grantaire—” Enjolras breathed, immediately scolding himself. From there on out, he would have to just tell Grantaire what his real name was, despite all the sorrow it brought Enjolras when he heard it.  
  
“There it is again, that name,” Grantaire whispered, sitting up in the bed, his grasp falling from Enjolras’s. “There’s something you aren’t telling me,”  
  
“I can assure you, I’m telling you all I can. You just keep reminding me of someone,”  
  
“Can’t be that good of a fellow if he reminds you of me and I’m notorious for being a _pain in the ass_.”  
  
Grantaire breathed an uncomfortable laugh as Enjolras sat up in the bed to join Grantaire. “I truly am sorry, you know,”  
  
Enjolras buried his face in his hands and scoffed. “What did I just say about—”  
  
“No, no. Not for that,”  
  
And Enjolras narrowed his eyes in the direction of Grantaire. There was a fumbling sound, a short click, and a few sparks. In an instant, the candle at the bedside was lit, the humble fire flickering in the night just as it had nearly a year earlier on the window sill of a second-story room.  
  
Grantaire’s curls took on an orange tint in the black room, the contours of his cheeks catching fire and the tip of his nose turning yellow.  
  
“I feel as though I’m going mad,” Grantaire whispered.  
  
Enjolras nodded solemnly again, unsure of what to say.  
  
“Maybe I’m drowning above water, I’m not sure. You can’t drown without water, can you? Though it feels like I am at times… My head is always pounding. _Constantly_. And I don’t know anything about myself. Do you understand what that’s like? It’s horrible. It’s like talking to someone, spilling your life out to them, only to hear “ _Okay_ ” in return. It’s frustrating as hell.”  
  
“I know you’re upset…” Enjolras rested a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “But you can’t afford to think like this now. We’ve come so far.”  
  
“Have we? Heaven knows I wouldn’t know if we’d come a mile or a thousand miles! Do you realize I can only remember my life up to the point I turned eighteen? That’s a good few years shaved off from my brain, Enjolras,”  
  
“You should start painting again,” Enjolras said shakily, breaking their subject. He glanced away from Grantaire toward the window sill where his charcoal lay. “You can find a canvas…”  
  
When he decided to look back up at Grantaire, a wide smile was stretched across his face. “You really are something, Apollo,”  
  
“Wha— What do you mean?” Enjolras could feel his face ignite, felt his fingers stiffen around the bed sheets.  
  
Grantaire only shook his head. “You’re still trying to help me. I’m no use to you, yet here you are trying to get me back on track,”  
  
“Of course. I have to help you.” Enjolras wiped his slick palms against the sheet. Why was he so nervous? He was never nervous…  
  
“You really don’t. You could have left me for dead back in Verona.” Grantaire’s eyes seemed to soften. He stared at Enjolras with a delicate look and it was far too much to stand.  
  
Enjolras coughed, filling the silence. “We should sleep.”  
  
Grantaire frowned momentarily, nodding slightly. “Yes. Yes, of course.”  
  
The candle was blown out and all was dark again.

* * *

  
“Home!” was the word that ricocheted off the walls in the small living quarters, accompanied by a door slam. Every sound seemed intensified in the small area…  
  
And then there was a sudden a heavy weight thrown down onto the bed, making Enjolras rise and fall momentarily.  
  
“I do believe this is the latest you’ve ever slept in, dear Enjolras,” A familiar voice mused.  
  
Enjolras’s eyes flickered open to reveal a casual and rather comfortable-looking Grantaire — No, Gilles —  by his side. The room was far too bright and Grantaire was far too cheery for Enjolras’s exhaustion at the moment. He buried his face into the crook of his arm and groaned.  
  
“There’s no need to be so sour. I expected you to be up by now.”  
  
There was no reply.  
  
“You know what? I’m almost certain someone’s come along and swapped you out for another god with golden locks. _My_ Enjolras is an early-riser.”  
  
And with that sentence hanging on the air, Enjolras rolled over onto his back and turned his head to face Grantaire. “When did I become _your_ Enjolras?”  
  
“When you picked me up from the dust on that street in Verona about 6 months ago.” And he smiled. It was an odd mixture of slyness and fondness.  
  
“Wouldn’t that make you mine?”  
  
“ _Touché_ ,” And Grantaire rolled off the bed, his boots clacking loudly against the wood of the floor.  
  
Those had been days of casual friendship. Those had been the best days Enjolras had allowed himself to have in months. Yet they were also the worst.  
  
This feeling of being so close to Grantaire again was almost lethal and Enjolras’s tongue was like a springboard, certain words and names and confessions ready to run forth and jump out to make Grantaire realize that his name was not Gilles and this was only a small portion of who he was. This intimacy was a new thing to Enjolras, but it was also something that he had longed for for so long that he almost felt dehydrated. What he wouldn’t give to just talk to his old friend, or clasp his hand in Grantaire’s, or even grasp his face in his hands and kiss him.  
  
But this was not an accepting time and Enjolras knew it. Not for Europe, and not for Grantaire.  
  
And he racked at his brain daily, wondering the same thing almost constantly:  
  
 _Would there ever be a right time?_

* * *

  
The night was full of more fidgeting and rustling, though on this night, Enjolras fell asleep quickly and easily, far before Grantaire did. Far into the night, he found it difficult to tell whether he was dreaming or really experiencing these things. He would toss and turn for a few moments, and fall right back asleep.  
  
 _The first dream was something of a miracle:_  
  
“It’s a shame, you know,” A familiar voice wisped through the air. Enjolras’s eyes opened — or so it seemed they did — and he found himself staring directly at the sign above the Café Musain, the walls still perfectly intact, the streets clean and blood-free. “That you had to leave Paris.”  
  
Enjolras whipped around, his soles grinding on the cobblestone roadway. He felt his head tighten, his heart throb…  
  
“Combeferre,” He whispered.  
  
Combeferre smiled and took a slow step towards Enjolras. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss you when you left,”  
  
“M-Miss me?” He sputtered. This was his Combeferre, his right-hand man, standing _right in front of him_. His clothes were fresh, his skin glowing with health. Not a single bullet had touched him.  
  
“Well, yes, when you grabbed Grantaire and fled to Russia? You think I wouldn’t notice?”  
  
“Noti—Notice…” How on Earth was this happening? He was beyond stunned. All he could do was repeat everything Combeferre had already stated.  
  
Combeferre laughed, good and heartily. “What’s happened to you, dear leader? You haven’t lost your golden tongue, have you?”  
  
Enjolras shook his head slowly, still trying to process what was happening. “I… You… How are you…?”  
  
“I’m not alive, if that’s what you’re getting at. Just stopping by to say hello. My God, it’s almost been a year.”  
  
“Y-Yes, I realize this,”  
  
There was a long stretch of silence accompanied by an equally as long gaze from Combeferre’s end. “He’s a good soul, you know, Grantaire… He isn’t gone. If he was, we would have seen him by now,”  
  
“We?” Enjolras breathed, doing a circle. The streets were exactly the same as they had been back in Paris in the summer of 1832. He stretched out his arms, suddenly noticing the red of his jacket cuff. He pressed a hand against his chest and patted himself down, tugging on his cravat, pulling on his shirt collar, clicking his boots on the pavement.  
  
The same exact thing he had been wearing the day of the revolution.  
  
Combeferre laughed again. “Yes, all of us. Feuilly wanted to tag along with me, but I wanted to get my own time in alone.”  
  
Enjolras could only stare at him. He hadn’t heard this voice in months.  
  
“Are you alright? In all honesty, Enjolras…”  
  
“Am I—? Am I _alright?_ ” Enjolras laughed, throwing his hands in the air. “What do I have to devote myself to anymore? Grantaire? He’s exhausting! I was made to be a leader, Combeferre, and you know it. Have I asked myself the price I might pay? Yes! But never would I have thought it would lead to this.”  
  
Combeferre smiled quietly. “I suppose that’s a no, then. You _were_ built to be a leader, and a fine one at that, but the world is not your weight to carry. Your potential is overwhelming, really it is. You cannot fathom what your voice does to people, especially Grantaire,”  
  
Enjolras glanced up at him quickly before reverting his gaze to the ground. “You make me sound magical, you know. I’m just a sad boy with far too many bruises,”  
  
Combeferre smiled yet again. It seemed as though he hadn’t smiled in years. “You don’t honestly think that. You are the epitome of idealism and dreams, you know. You do things to people. You step on their hearts.”  
  
“Perhaps that’s what’s best. I’ve grown so weary over the last few months, Combeferre. I don’t know how much longer I can carry on,”  
  
“Those are words that only come from the mouths of those who have fallen hard.”  
  
“Do you not think I’ve fallen very hard, Combeferre? Have these last few months been a walk through a field? Perhaps I should just go slaughter everyone in Piacenza, would that qualify me to be a goner?”  
  
“Enjolras, no. Don’t lose your head just because things are a bit overwhelming now, okay?” He quickly walked up to Enjolras, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I know that’s not who you are. I understand you’re worn out and disheartened… but you’re almost there.”  
  
“Almost where?” Enjolras watched Combeferre intently.  
  
“He’ll come back to you, Enjolras,” Combeferre nodded. “He’s coming back to you.”  
  
But a strange noise broke through the silent streets. Loud clops against the pavement filled the air, slashing through their conversation. Combeferre turned his head and the two of them found themselves watching the corner, a bit confused.  
  
In an instant, Courfeyrac rounded the corner, creasing himself in half, out of breath from running.  
  
“I… didn’t want you… to… have him all… to yourself.” Courfeyrac wheezed through breaths. Enjolras’s face split in half into an enormous smile, a rarity.  
  
“I thought we agreed on our orders, Courfeyrac?” Combeferre’s palm met with his forehead. “What about Joly?”  
  
“Oh, he’s going with Bossuet now,” Courfeyrac grinned, his smile just the same as it had been in 1832. His dark curls bounced with every step, his eyes brightened when he talked… He was not dead.  
  
“Bossuet was going with Bahorel and Feuilly, I thought?”  
  
“No, no. Feuilly was going to come with Jehan, remember?”  
  
Combeferre nodded, tapping his finger against his chin. “Oh, yes… So Joly’s with Bossuet now?”  
  
“Boys!” Enjolras beamed. “I really do hate to interrupt, but was there a point to this?”  
  
Courfeyrac stepped around Combeferre and pulled Enjolras into a hug. He stood there, motionless and a tad surprised.  
  
“You are far more than a sad boy with bruises. You are something to be admired and you have a tremendous heart, no matter how little you show it. And what you’re doing for Grantaire… I can’t even comprehend the words.” Courfeyrac pulled away, smiled a bittersweet smile, and slapped Enjolras on the back. “Don’t give up on him,”  
  
Enjolras only stared. “I… I won’t.” Where had his tongue gone? Why was he at such a loss for words?  
  
Combeferre and Courfeyrac stood side by side, their skin suddenly taking on a transparency that wasn’t quite normal. Their ankles vanished, carried away by the wind.  
  
“Ah, time, Combeferre, _time!_ ” Courfeyrac rushed out his words in a panic, opening and closing his fists, watching his skin fade away.  
  
“It’s alright, Courf, I think we’ve said what we’ve needed to say,” Combeferre smiled again. “And don’t think we’ll be doing this all the time, okay? Only when we really think you need it,”  
  
Enjolras nodded quickly, terrified at the sight of them vanishing, the air eating away at their calves.  
  
“I better not see you for quite some time, alright? You’ve got your life ahead of you!” Courfeyrac shouted, his voice seemingly distant.  
  
Combeferre waved, his fingertips barely visible. Suddenly, he stopped and redirected his eyes to Courfeyrac. “And _you!_ Don’t be switching the times on me anymore alright? This is difficult enough as it is…”  
  
The last thing Enjolras witnessed was a nervous Courfeyrac nod his head enthusiastically and disappear into the streets of Paris.  
  
  
  
He woke up in a cold sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really missed Combeferre and Courfeyrac.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones a bit short, sorry about that. They'll start being normal length soon enough, I've just been a bit busy lately...

Grantaire hadn’t heard him sputter and wake up in the night. He slept on, dead to the world, his breaths deep and heavy, his chest rising and falling like the sun.  
  
Enjolras shoved a fistful of fingers into his hair and shook the dream away.  
  
Yes. It had only been a dream.  
  
The second one contrasted the first one severely. It was Enjolras’s saddest dream in quite some time.  
  
Enjolras’s head hit the pillow, but it was not there for some reason. He sat up and turned around to see what had happened, and found himself staring at the muddy ground, the clay of the Earth upturned and soft. He stood, shaking the mud and dirt free from his clothes.  
  
The place was not recognizable. It was a long stretch of muddy, upturned soil with hundreds of trees scattered around him. His eyes could not stretch to see anything much more than that. The horizon was dotted with the same looming trees.  
  
“Enjolras!” A distantly familiar voice rang out, bouncing off the trees and slapping him in the face.  
  
Enjolras whipped his head around, searching for the source.  
  
“Enjolras!” It called again.  
  
“What? Where are—?”  
  
“Up! Look up!”  
  
He did as he was told and locked eyes with a trembling little man with a mop of hair accompanied by a relatively larger man with much less of a mop.  
  
A grin cracked across his face. “Joly! Bossuet!”  
  
Bossuet hopped down from the low-hanging tree branch and splashed into the mud barefoot. He turned back around and waved for Joly to join them.  
  
Joly shook his head vigorously. “That isn’t sanitary. Do you know how much bacteria could be in that mud? And you could catch multiple diseases being down there in no shoes, Bossuet!”  
  
“Joly… you’re dead.” Bossuet reminded him.  
  
“Well, who knows? Maybe you can still get illnesses in the afterlife. What about the plague?”  
  
Bossuet shook his head and trudged through the thick mud over to Enjolras, pulling him at the wrist and patting him on the back. “Ah, we’ve missed you quite a bit.”  
  
Enjolras hugged him back and answered quickly for fear of his voice cracking. “Me too… me too. Courfeyrac and Combeferre…?”  
  
Bossuet pulled away, smiling and nodding. “Yeah, they came a bit ago, didn’t they? Combeferre was pretty upset with Courf.”  
  
Enjolras smiled weakly. “He… He didn’t mean any harm. I was more than happy to see them together.”  
  
“Well, he did nose in on Combeferre’s time—”  
  
“Two minutes, Bossuet!” Jolly hollered from the tree, his feet dangling uselessly over the branch.  
  
Bossuet waved him away. “But anyways, I’m on a time limit, as you can see.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” Enjolras rushed out, wiping the back of his hand across his cheek.  
  
Bossuet shook his had and laughed. “Never thought I’d live to see the day,”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Our Enjolras. Crying.”  
  
“To be fair,“ Enjolras laughed. “You aren’t alive,“  
  
Bossuet laughed loudly.  
  
“And I cried back at the barricade,” Enjolras continued. “The guardsman, when I shot him. And over you all…”  
  
A warm hand found its way onto his shoulder. “I know, I was there. We’ve always been there, you know. How do you think you’ve been so lucky?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Do you realize how many pickpockets we’ve had to keep away from you and Grantaire? We’d figure out new ways each day — maybe grow some thorns in their path or make them lose their shoes so they wouldn’t be on time to catch you two… The stolen fruit and bread? How do you think you were never caught? And the illnesses? And on the days when you planned to travel throughout Europe… We were there, shifting the weather around so that you could move easier. We’ve all been with you all this time, Enjolras,”  
  
“You… You… All of you? Everyone?” Enjolras breathed.  
  
Bossuet nodded. “And with Grantaire… only an angel would do what you’ve managed to do,”  
  
“Make it quick, Bossuet! You’ve got a minute!”  
  
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Joly, get down here!” Bossuet yelled back.  
  
“Germs!” Joly hissed, but Bossuet persisted, hauling himself back up the tree, grabbing Joly by the ankles and dragging him back over to Enjolras. Joly was throw at Enjolras, a heaping mass of arms and hair and clothes.  
  
Suddenly, Joly pulled back, a gentle look crossing his eyes. “Hm, not as bad as I thought down here.”  
  
He placed a delicate hand on Enjolras’s brow and then grabbed his chin, forcing his bottom jaw down so Joly could inspect his mouth. His smile was bittersweet.  
  
“You’ve been lucky. You seem to be healthy enough. Check Grantaire for me, will you?” He said silently, his lips barely parting.  
  
Enjolras nodded slowly, the tears threatening to fall.  
  
“A-And make sure he doesn’t have a sore throat, alright? Be thorough. Sore throats are extremely contagious this time of year. And make sure his temperature isn’t too high too, but keep him in a warm room. Also, check his breathing, okay? We can’t having him getting a lung infection—”  
  
“Joly, he’ll be fine,” Bossuet whispered, his large hands finding their way onto Joly’s shoulders.  
  
“And if he starts sneezing too much, just take him to the doctor right away, you hear?” Joly shouted, his mid-calf slowly being erased into the background.  
  
“Joly, I-I understand. He won’t get ill, I promise,” Enjolras nodded.  
  
There was a moment of silence as the transparency spread up to Joly’s pelvis and Bossuet’s thighs.  
  
“Enjolras?” Joly inquired.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Be kind to him. Be patient. He’s coming home soon. Love him for us. For yourself.”  
  
Enjolras took half-a-step backwards. “I don’t—”  
  
“Please, Enjolras, don’t lie to us. It’s a bit disheartening.” But Joly’s smile never faded, though his torso had begun to.  
  
“How do you know—?” Enjolras started, but Bossuet held up a hand.  
  
“We know quite a bit. There are advantages to being dead. We know snippets about Grantaire too, you know,”  
  
“Grantaire isn’t capable of loving, Bossuet,” Enjolras slightly growled.  
  
But the two boys only shook their heads, the wind sweeping them away, leaving Enjolras’s feet to be the only ones in the mud.  
  
He stared at the empty space where his friends had just been seconds before and sighed deeply, his heart almost bursting with sadness.  
  
And though it was very faint at first, he most definitely heard Bossuet:  
  
“You will see,”

* * *

There had been a hardy shove and an extremely warm hand on his forearm. There had been urgent whispers and a desperate rustling of the bed sheets.  
  
Gilles turned over to face Enjolras, his eyes tugging themselves downward, his breaths long and deep. Sleep still had its strong grip on him.  
  
“What? What is it?” Gilles mumbled to Enjolras in the night, his eyelids scarcely open.  
  
“Do you know who you are?” His voice slithered back.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean exactly what I ask,”  
  
Gilles sighed, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “What is this about, Enjolras?”  
  
“So you know who I am. This must mean you know who you are…”  
  
“Of course I know who I am! Stop being daft and go back to bed,”  
  
“Gilles,” Enjolras sounded intense, yet still timid at the same time. This was not like him. He nearly always kept his composure, that marble-esque stature never phasing.  
  
And so Gilles stretched a hand out and lay it on Enjolras‘s cheek, trying to feel for a temperature that had drastically changed, for the only way for Enjolras to sound this fearful and dramatic at the same time would be if he had taken on some illness.  
  
“What?” He sighed yet again.  
  
“I miss you, you know. Would it kill you to come back around sometime?”  
  
Confused, Gilles sat up in the bed, stretching the ashes and cracks out of his skin. Enjolras sat up with him, though far more smoothly. “What is this about?”  
  
For a while, the darkness on the opposite end said nothing.  
  
Until.  
  
“If you won’t use your charcoal, I will.”  
  
Gilles was silent, waiting for him to explain. What had gotten into Enjolras? The fear was gone as quickly as it had come, only to leave behind the same soft, yet stern voice as always.  
  
But Enjolras did not explain. There was only the sound of disoriented fabric, barefoot feet smacking against the wood of the floor, and more cracks from the ancient bed as he sat back down. Clammy hands instantly found their way onto Gilles’s right shoulder and eased him back down.  
  
“En-jolras,” Gilles yawned, laying back down on his stomach.  
  
“Quiet,” He ordered.  
  
Those same clammy hands pushed the bottom of Gilles shirt up to meet his neck and the fine tip of the charcoal met with Gilles creased skin.  
  
He did not sleep for the rest of that night. Instead, he put forth all of his effort to staying awake, fighting against the drowsy disease, and feeling the strokes of the charcoal. They were not anything real, Gilles had decided. There were far too many swirls to what it was Enjolras was drawing on Gilles’s back, far too many dips and curves and spins. It felt like steam.  
  
He started at the bottom, down towards his pelvis, and worked his way up, the twists and curls growing in size as he built up.  
  
And though sleep still threatened to smother Gilles, he strained his eyes to watch the navy blue of the sky out the window and told himself that he knew who he was over and over again in his thoughts. Enjolras had done something to him again. He stirred his mind and got him wondering if he really did know who he was.  
  
 _You’re Gilles, you know that._  
  
 _Do I? Or am I just eating up information that’s gladly passed to me?_  
  
 _You know who you are._  
  
 _But I don’t._  
  
 _You know enough._  
  
 _No. No. I don’t know nearly enough._  
  
He focused on Enjolras’s artwork until the sun was burning at the edges of the sky like parchment. If you looked close enough, you could read the sentences and breathe in the words. Dawn ate away at the night sky and Enjolras finally set down Gilles’s stick of charcoal, pulling Gilles’s shirt down carefully.  
  
“What have you done?” Gilles whispered.  
  
It took several minutes before Enjolras replied: “I made a work of art. Quite the masterpiece.”  
  
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Gilles smiled.  
  
And finally the sleep won, entangling itself stealthily around Gilles neck, lacing itself through his hair.

Though he slept the entire time on his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost over, you guys... 
> 
> Brace yourselves...


	11. Chapter 11

This is no new chapter. It's simply here to inform you all of a few things:

1) I do intend on finishing this, I promise. I know how frustrating it can be when an author on the internet doesn't finish their stories.  
2) I'm very sorry for not updating for God knows how long. I will soon though. I've been extremely busy with band and school and all, but now that it's almost summer, I'll have plenty of free time to write.  
3) There will be only 2 more chapters in this story.

Also, do you guys even want me to finish the story? If no one cares, then I suppose I won't even bother...  
But, please, let me know.  
Alright.  
Goodbye (:


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! I'm back!  
> I apologize for this one being relatively short and for being gone for so long. But we're back in action, right?

The following morning, the sun was far too bright and every single small noise was intensified, ringing in Enjolras’s ears. He crinkled his nose and tried to gather more sleep, tried to tie it all in a bundle, tossing and turning on the single bunk.  
  
“Would you stop moving?” Grantaire grumbled.  
  
And when Enjolras finally opened his eyes, there was no Grantaire in sight. His voice was there, but he wasn’t. A horrifying thought briefly crossed Enjolras’s mind:  
  
What if Grantaire had died and he had come to visit Enjolras like the rest of his friends? Furthermore, what if this was just another dream and Grantaire had died back at the barricade? What if each bullet had pierced him, ripped through his skin and shattered his glassy bones? Had Enjolras been mad this entire time, chasing a phantom, caring for a ghost?  
  
But, no. It was only a sliver of a second. It was only a quick burden. Enjolras was far too level-headed to think that he’d gone insane and had been talking to an apparition this whole time.  
  
He sat up, his hair disheveled, his eyes red-rimmed, and his whole body just a bit too warm. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and scanned the room only to find a content-looking Grantaire sitting cross-legged on the floor, his stubby charcoal in hand, a small canvas resting on his knee. He glanced up at Enjolras and then back down at the board, a tender smile plastered on his lips.  
  
Enjolras sighed, rubbing his face in his hands. “What are you doing?”  
  
“You tell me, Apollo,”  
  
“Where did you get the canvas?” He removed his hands from his face to watch Grantaire.  
  
“ _Found it,_ ” The tender smile grew to a smirk.  
  
“So you stole it.” Enjolras affirmed, nodding his head at nothing in particular.  
  
“I went for a walk earlier this morning and passed by a painter on the roadway. He wasn’t using it, it was just lying there next to his supplies.” Grantaire’s hand swept across the page.  
  
“If it was sitting next to his supplies, odds are he was planning on using it, Gilles,” Enjolras breathed.  
  
“I’m going to have to find another one if you keep moving. I’ll have to find more charcoal as well, since you insisted on using it last night,” Grantaire’s eyebrow raised though his eyes never left his drawing.  
  
“You needed it,”  
  
“I needed artwork on my back?”  
  
“You needed to know you aren’t blank. You’re worth a lot more than you give yourself credit,” How strange these words felt falling from his mouth. He was only used to telling Grantaire quite the opposite, telling him that he was forgettable and useless, and thinking back on it felt like pricks of ice against his skin. How cruel he had been…  
  
Grantaire stopped drawing and looked up at Enjolras, his expression unreadable. “Th-Thank you,”  
  
Enjolras nodded once firmly, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”  
  
Grantaire smirked again. “I thought we already went over this? I’m drawing you,”  
  
Enjolras groaned and threw himself back onto the cot.  
  
“Oh, don’t be so sour. You think I’m doing this for you? It takes real talent to capture that sort of beauty,”  
  
“Was that a compliment?”  
  
“Perhaps,”  
  
And Grantaire sat on the chilly floorboards, his charcoal nearly a nub, his hand hardly moving, filling in a shadow on Enjolras’s face. And Enjolras sat on the bed, his hands folded in his lap, watching Grantaire do his work.  
  
And neither of them knew. Neither one of them expected what was to happen, but it would happen all the same, and it would hurl their story in to quite the ending, let me assure you.  
  
Oblivious to their ending, Grantaire set the charcoal down and thinned his lips into a small line. He turned the board around for Enjolras to behold.  
  
It had been quite some time since Enjolras had last seen Grantaire draw. He certainly had a passion for it, that was true. The last time he had seen Grantaire drawn was years ago, back in the early days of the ABC and their meetings at the Café Musain. He had been sitting in a chair, the canvas resting against the edge of the table, halfway on his lap. He had turned around and glanced up at a stern-faced Enjolras and simply waited. He did nothing but stare and wait for a response of some sort — perhaps he was expecting a nod or a scowl or even a scoff — but Grantaire got none of those, for Enjolras smiled one of his rare smiles at Grantaire that day and walked on upstairs. He hadn’t bothered to stop and turn around and see how Grantaire reacted to such a gift — a smile from _Enjolras?_ — for their first meeting was about to start.  
  
And now Enjolras did the same. He smiled at Grantaire and his rendition of Enjolras himself and nodded his head once.  
  
“You’ve got talent,”  
  
“A smile _and_ a compliment? What have you done with Enjolras?”  
  
“I could take it back,” Enjolras cocked an eyebrow and stood from the bed, pulling his boots on.  
  
A sudden knock forced both men to look first at one another in suspicion, and then at the door. Enjolras answered it only to find the severely scarred face of the man whom had let them stay in the tavern.  
  
Without a word of explanation, the man said. “Let me see your papers,”  
  
Enjolras quickly glanced back at Grantaire who now stood from the floor, his canvas and charcoal abandoned on the ground. He turned back to the man.  
  
“Do you really think we’d mean you harm? We’re only travelers looking for a place to stay for a while,”  
  
“Get out,”  
  
“ _Signore_ ,” Grantaire walked briskly towards the door. “We only want a few more nights,”  
  
“I said get out. Do I need to report you two?”  
  
Neither one of them said anything. Enjolras’s brow knitted together as he glared at the man.  
  
He nodded his head once. “Alright then. Get your things and leave,”  
  
There was a stunned silence, angry glances, and a hearty slam from a door. Boots were slipped into and the few possessions they had were packed tightly and quickly.  
  
The boys were outcasts once again.  
  


* * *

  
  
“There’s nowhere to go, Enjolras,” Grantaire breathed that night as they walked along the dirt roads, their boots thoroughly dusted with dirt. “No one will accept us now. We don’t have any papers,”  
  
Enjolras had nothing to say to this. Grantaire was right and he knew it. No one would let them in willingly if they hadn’t any papers. Distressed, he combed his fingers through his hair.  
  
“We’ll find somewhere,” Enjolras lied, his heart jumping to his throat. “We have to,”  
  
“They don’t ask for papers in Polpastrello, you know,” A voice came curling around their ears. Both men stopped short and turned towards the noise.  
  
A lean man with broad shoulders rested against the back end of a small house. He smiled to them and heaved himself forward away from his resting place. A firm hand shot forward.  
  
“I apologize for eavesdropping, but you two seem to be in a predicament.” Enjolras shook the man’s hand. “Carlo Cattaneo.”  
  
“They don’t take papers in Polpastrello, you say?” Grantaire stepped forward.  
  
“Oh, no, they’ll take them if you offer, but it is rare if anyone there asks. It‘s just a little ways north. You keep heading down this road, cross the river, and turn left, that street‘ll lead you right there.”  
  
Grantaire met Enjolras’s eyes as he smiled and grasped his shoulders in hard fists, the excitement practically radiating off his skin. “No papers! Enjolras, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”  
  
“Just how do you expect to get there?” Cattaneo questioned.  
  
“On foot, I suppose.”  
  
“Travelers, I see. Vagabonds.”  
  
“Mmm. Yes. Well, we appreciate the tip, sir. Good day.” Enjolras’s features were cold. He turned on the tip of his heel and began continuing down their route.”  
  
Surprised, Grantaire thanked the man and hustled up to Enjolras. “I don’t understand. Are you taking his advice?”  
  
“Of course I am. Even if they’re rumors, the fact that the town rarely accepts papers, it’s the only foundation we’ve got at the moment. We’ve got to try.”  
  
“Did you like my drawing?”  
  
Enjolras glanced at Grantaire out of the corner of his eye. “What sort of question is that?”  
  
“I question I am dying to know the answer to, my lordship. You are, after all, a god, aren’t you? For a _god_ to love _my_ artwork?” Grantaire laughed heartily into the night, swinging his arms giddily at his sides. “Why, it would be an honor!”  
  
Enjolras smiled and swatted at Grantaire.  
  
“Look. The river’s just ahead. We’ll be in Polpastrello in no time.” Grantaire grinned.  
  
And Enjolras mimicked him, kicking up dirt from the road, happiness emanating from what seemed to be a lifeless statue.  
  
Yes.  
  
Enjolras was _happy_.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polpastrello = fingertip
> 
> (Yes, I made up my own city. Please don’t hurt me if this is translated wrong, I’m from Ohio, I don’t speak Italian.)
> 
> Gilles — Young goat (Someone who is referred to as a goat is typically one who wins in one’s politics rather than war, like a pacifist, but Gilles means ‘young’ goat, so this is only used when Grantaire has finally taken up some of Enjolras’s political views and is still fresh on the subject matter.)
> 
> Also, Carlo Cattaneo was a real man. He lead a council of war made up of Milan civilians during the Five Days Milan, the start of the First Italian War of Independence. (Surprise, surprise, a revolution!) I threw him in for a second simply for the fun of it.


	13. Chapter 13

_The world had ended in fire_ , Enjolras thought. It had exploded into a multitude of fiery colors, leaving him as the last inhabitant. Of course, that had to have been it.

Why else would he feel like a flame had engulfed his soul? What other possible reason could there be for him to feel as though ashes and smoke had gathered at the back of his throat, threatening to suffocate him?

 

Grantaire was a different story.

 

Enjolras tossed in the middle of the night, covered from head to toe in dirt from the roadway. He turned in his sleep uneasily, his right shoulder flexing, sending a wave of discomfort through his whole body. He often tried to forget about the uprising – their failed attempt at happiness – but no matter how hard he tried to convince himself those things had never happened, that his friends were imaginary all along, that all of this had to be one massive, horrid, disgusting dream… He found three things stopping him.

Enjolras sat up in the dead of night, a summer symphony playing all around him. Small sounds such as the crickets chirping like violin players, the rustling of the leaves suddenly similar to a drumbeat he had heard long ago, in another life, perhaps.

 

 **His first hindrance:** The right shoulder.

It would be far less difficult to wipe his memory clean of Paris had he not been physically injured there… Though this was the least of his problems.

He felt nostalgia twist its cruel hands around his neck. He felt it coming on slowly, tentatively touching his throat before it laced its fingertips around him completely. He suddenly had the urge to scream, to cry out into the darkness, to a spirit that may or may not exist out on the horizon. He wanted to spill his mind, and he wanted to do it now.

 

 **His second hindrance:** The mind.

And how – how, indeed – could he ever escape Paris fully with a mind like his own? A mind that remembered every single detail (Combeferre’s waistcoat color, the side Courfeyrac parted his hair on, the sound of Gavroche’s laugh)? And furthermore, how could he let himself think that he wanted to forget his friends? The very souls that had helped him and encouraged him all through his life? How could he try and cast them aside like a lost puppy, or an old newspaper? If anything, he had to acknowledge their existence, no matter how much it hurt.

Enjolras ran his fingers through his golden curls, stopping once his palms grazed the base of his neck. How on Earth had he gotten into this mess? Why hadn’t he left Grantaire behind when he found him in that room? Had it been his natural instinct to look after something that so desperately needed him?

 

Or was there more to this stone-cold statue?

 

 **His third hindrance:** Grantaire.

That bastard.

 

Had Grantaire not tagged along – _No,_ had Enjolras not dragged him all across Europe – he might still have some minuscule part of his sanity.

 

But he realized he couldn’t have just left Grantaire behind in that cold, little room. Leaving him would have defied everything Enjolras had known…

And over the past year, Enjolras had grown to know Grantaire in so many new ways… He hadn’t thought there were so many complexities to that man. Shame seized him by the heart when he thought back to how many times he called him a drunk, a heathen, a tag-along…

He smiled in the darkness, thinking of how the edges of Grantaire’s lips turned up when he smiled. He learned that when Grantaire laughed too hard, his eyes crinkled like paper, and that he was too restless and too thoughtful to sleep for a long period of time. He learned that Grantaire had a beautiful eye about him… When he talked about how excited he was about something, something in Enjolras’s heart… snapped. Adrenaline would course through him as he would watch Grantaire’s animated rant, his hands flying through the air like doves, his eyes wild with happiness.

Enjolras shook his head, laughing silently to himself. There must be something wrong with him…

 

“How long have you been up?”

 

Enjolras jumped in his seat, his head snapping up to face Grantaire on his right. His bedhead was hilarious, sticking out in every angle imaginable.

 

“Ah… Not too long. Why are you up? We have a long road ahead of us tomorrow – go back to sleep.”

Grantaire shook his head, yawning, and stretching.

Enjolras’s eyes focused on his chest, watching it rise and fall with every breath. He felt something stir in his own chest… A yearning…

God, he was going mad! What was the matter with him?!

 

“You know I’m a restless sleeper, Enjolras, don’t seem so surprised.” He nearly laughed out his last word, making Enjolras’s fingertips ignite. “Are you alright? You’ve gone pale.”

 

In an instant, Grantaire was leaning forward over Enjolras’s cloak, putting the back of his hand on his face. It struck Enjolras in that moment how… wonderful he looked there. Light stubble had begun to pepper itself across Grantaire’s jawline, and his silhouette against the moon and the amethyst sky was something only a skilled painter could recreate. Freckles dotted his cheeks and nose, constellations etched into his skin. Grantaire was made up of hundreds of galaxies, and Enjolras got a glimpse of just one that night.

Embarrassment lashed itself across Enjolras’s face, tainting his porcelain skin a deep red. He pulled away from the hand.

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“You know, Apollo, I’ve noticed something…” Grantaire let the hand that had touched Enjolras’s face moments before fall to his lap.

Enjolras’s stomach churned. Perhaps he had figured Enjolras out before he even had. “And what might that be?”

“You say things twice when you’re nervous.” Grantaire cocked an eyebrow at him, smirking.

“ _Wha- What?_ When am I ever nervous, Gilles, now come on.” Enjolras tried on a stony expression that didn’t fit, like a shoe two sizes too small.

“You seem to be now,” He went on, resting his chin in his palm.

“R-Really, Gilles, this is getting a bit ridiculous. We should rest. It’s far too late for this.” Enjolras turned from Grantaire, flattening his cloak out on the grass.

 

Grantaire’s hand was immediately on top of Enjolras’s.

 

A fire had started in Enjolras’s stomach, he was sure of it! His cheeks, his ears, his nose burned bright with a warmth he hadn’t felt in ages.

“You’re freezing, Enjolras.”

“It’s cold out.”

“It’s summertime.”

 

Every bit of logic had suddenly been wiped clean from Enjolras’s head.

Maybe he didn’t want to forget about Paris. Maybe he didn’t want to forget about Grantaire. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to continue this way with Grantaire. Hopping from town to town, stealing from orchards, smiles plastered on their faces… Maybe he didn’t want to spend time with Grantaire any other way.

 

Enjolras’s hand shook at the thought.

 

“Now, look, you’re shaking! Here, just take my cloak to cover yourself with and I’ll sleep on the ground for the night.”

“N-No, Grantaire, please, I’m alright—”

“There’s that name again…” Grantaire sighed, shaking his head. His blue eyes met Enjolras’s. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

 

Enjolras cursed at himself. Why was this so difficult? 

Enjolras fidgeted, twiddling his thumbs in his lap, barely listening as Grantaire went on about Enjolras’s mental health. This whole experience was new, being nervous around Grantaire, but still he couldn’t stop the butterflies flapping their wings so profusely in his abdomen. He looked up at Grantaire’s mouth, examined the hairpin curve of his lips…

 

“Enjolras?”

 

His name broke him free for a moment. “Um… y-yes.”

“Yes, _what?_ ” Grantaire laughed, and Enjolras felt his heart do a somersault in his chest. “Have you been listening to me?”

“Uh…” slipped from Enjolras’s mouth before he could even stop it. Where had that ‘uh’ come from? What was happening to him? He was a speaker _with a golden tongue, for Christ’s sake_ – so why was he stuttering so much?

But Grantaire laughed again. “So you haven’t!”

“ _Gran-_ Gilles,” Enjolras shook his head. He should just tell him, just let everything out. He needed to cry, to scream, to kick and punch and throw…

“You’re obviously tired, Apollo. Let’s get you to be-”

“Gilles, I swear… _I swear_ … please, just leave me be.” Enjolras hissed. And of course it wasn’t Grantaire’s fault – none of this was – but what could he do? His mind was killing him, and if he wanted to stay sane, _he_ would have to kill _it_.

 

Gilles was quiet for a moment, examining Enjolras from head to toe. He bit his lip in the slightest manner, nodding slowly. “Right, right… of course… Goodnight then.”

But Enjolras didn’t answer him, instead deciding upon turning his back on Grantaire, his fingers gripping the fabric of his coat furiously, and his mind racing a mile a minute.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Polpastrello_ ,” Grantaire had breathed happily, the elation in his voice evident. He looked back at Enjolras. “We’ve got to be close now! Look, Enjolras, there’s the river!”

Enjolras nodded solemnly, not really that focused on Polpastrello. He had been sweating profusely that morning, his fingers never really unwinding from a rock-hard fist. Perhaps he had taken up some illness back in Piacenza…

“You know, my friend, there are still a few things I don’t know about you.” Grantaire smiled drowsily in the summer air.

Enjolras felt his heart skip a beat. His head snapped up to look at Grantaire, a smug smirk draped across his mouth. “What do you mean by that?”

 

“The important things… The intimate things…”

Enjolras shook his head quickly, taking his eyes off Grantaire, vowing to never look at him again. He shouldered his cloak nervously. He ground his teeth behind his lips as Grantaire went on…

 

“When I was younger, I was going to be an artist, you know? I was going to be _great_ , like Caravaggio or Francisco de Goya. Things were going to work themselves out, and I wouldn’t have to worry about the logistics of it all. I was… I was stupid… I focused so much on the public’s reactions to my work, not even acknowledging that I would, at one time or another, have to sit down and think about a real way to make a living.

And… that’s it. That’s all I remember… I recall studying different painting styles with several colleagues… And then the rest is just… _gone_.”

 

Enjolras felt a pang of guilt - of sadness - by the time Grantaire’s mouth had snapped shut.  And he found himself disobeying his very oath just moments before, and glanced up at Grantaire, but Grantaire hadn’t been looking at him. Instead Grantaire gazed at the ground, longingly, as if he were trying to find where the last few years of his life had gone.

Enjolras hesitated at first, but extended a hand, resting it on Grantaire’s shoulder. How long would this last? Would the amnesia go on forever? Was Grantaire’s mind officially lost, scattered to the winds?

It was the first time Enjolras had considered the possibility that Grantaire would never come back to him.

 

And he hated himself the instant he thought it.

 

Grantaire looked up at him, a slow, timid smile spread across his face.

But they were interrupted by a distant clamor, a loud, vicious, terrifying cluster of screaming, clattering, and blustering. Enjolras’s heart leapt to his throat instantly. He hadn’t heard a noise like that since…

 

“ _Paris_ ,”

 

“What was that?” Enjolras’s turned towards Grantaire, his brain reeling. Had Grantaire really just said what he thought he had?

 

“Polpastrello, I said.” Grantaire repeated, gazing at Enjolras, his eyes overwhelmingly sad.

 

And Enjolras – poor Enjolras – felt his heart tighten in his chest; his lungs expand just the slightest bit too much. He felt as though he were being stretched beyond his limit, his skin being pulled in every direction, and he was writhing underneath, forced to endure it all, stuck in the most uncomfortable of situations.

He was catching glimpses of him still, his old Grantaire, and it was driving him to madness.

 

But something old stirred inside Enjolras as well. Something not quite foreign, but still strange all the same, like greeting an old friend. He was lodged between feeling a gruesome sense of nostalgia, a great longing for Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bahorel… for everyone… for the livelihood and idealistic days spent in the Musain… for Grantaire…

 

And the familiar sense of fury and passion in his gut that he had thought was extinguished in France. He was suddenly capable again, suddenly ready, suddenly… _Enjolras_.

He was ready for the chaos, for the thrill.

 

“Gilles,” He had whispered. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

There had been screaming and shouting - demands for so many different things, Enjolras could not keep up. He caught snippets, bobbing and weaving through the thick crowd.

Children were hoisted into the air, kicking and biting and yelling and crying, and Enjolras’s heart dropped to his stomach. Pandemonium ran rampant. Women cried out, their eyes swelling with tears, their bodies shaking with grief. Anger was painted like war paint across the men’s faces, their fists held high in the air as weapons.

These people were ready to fight, bone and blood, fist to cheek.

And Enjolras loved them for it.

 

“These are our girls! These are our women! You can’t take them!"

“Violence—! Violence will be used if needed! You rats! You heathens!”

“She’s only seven! Give her to me! Give her back, my Alessandra! _My Alessandra!_ ”

Wrinkled and smoothed hands alike reached towards the heavens as though begging for God. A sea of civilians stretched into the horizon, and now that Enjolras was here, he couldn’t just… leave.

 

“Enjolras!” Grantaire managed to shout over the shrieks. “Enjolras, look at these people!”

 

Enjolras shook his head, his eyes wild. “We… We need to stay.”

Grantaire’s eyes doubled in size. “I-I’m sorry?!”

“We’re staying, Gilles! We… we have to… Here, this way…”

 

Enjolras gripped Grantaire’s shirt collar, pulling him along through the stench of sweat and blood. In a moment, his cloak was gone from his shoulder, and he was being pushed around between several civilians. He lost his hold on Grantaire’s shirt, and his skin prickled with fear.

 

Grantaire was nowhere to be found.

 

“ _Gran—!_ ” He was forced to the ground, shoved about between the legs of the restless townsfolk. Someone’s foot met with his side, sending him onto his back just beside a fountain.

The center of town, Enjolras had decided, staring up at the sky from his back. He fought his way back to his feet, and scanned the crowd for Grantaire yet again.

Immediately, a guardsman found his way just to the left of Enjolras.

Several people ran, screaming from the guardsman, but the majority stood their ground, armed with large stones and branches. More screaming ensued as the guardsman plucked another child from a woman who fought desperately to keep him.

The boy kicked the guardsman to which the boy was thrown to the ground, the barrel of a gun pointed straight at his head.

 

Enjolras’s heart seized.

 

The men with their rocks tried to fight, shouting obscenities, their makeshift weapons tight in their fists, but another guardsman came around, his gun pointed directly at the crowd. A man with a scraggly beard attempted jumping forward, but was shot dead on the spot, the bullet ripping through his chest.

The riots grew more chaotic.

 

The guardsman readied his gun, ready to shoot the boy, when a figure with dark curls darted through the scene, snatched up the child, and ran away all in one fluid motion.

 

Cries rang throughout the mass of people, ferocious smiles born on their lips. Enjolras felt his own lips turning upward into a smirk.

Of course.

The figure had to be Grantaire.

 

Further encouraged by Grantaire, Enjolras leapt forward, wrapping his arms around the shoulders and neck of the guardsman. The crowd erupted into cheers, charging forward, brandishing their fists, and attacking a guardsman of their own. He laid the man on the ground, unconscious.

Before long, he had felt another hand on him, and when he swiveled around, Grantaire was laughing, his palms pressed against Enjolras’s shoulders. Unable to understand why Grantaire was laughing, and desperate to talk to him, Enjolras tried again to pull Grantaire off to the edge of the town square, but it was in vain, for the crowd bustled yet again, knocking the two of them deeper into the mass.

 

And it all happened far too quickly.

Enjolras was on his heels, nearly tripping, falling over everyone, when Grantaire fell from his grasp and went stumbling back, his head cracking against the fountain.

 

He did not rise.

 

Enjolras felt himself gag, nearly choking on his own tongue.

He did not go through everything over the past year to keep Grantaire alive just for him to die now. This couldn’t happen – this _wouldn’t_ happen. He wouldn’t _let it_. If it took his entire being to keep Grantaire from death for a second time, then by God, he was going to let it.

Enjolras rushed towards him, kneeling on the ground. He put rested his palms on either side of Grantaire’s face, his cheeks flushed and ice cold. “Grantaire—” And he didn’t even think about saying 'Gilles' in that moment, too frightened to even think about something so unimportant.

 

His eyes fluttered momentarily.

 

“Look, I’m… I’m going to get us out of here, alright?”

 

* * *

 

 

Gilles’s head was pounding, aching to the point where he thought death would be a sweet release. He groaned, trying to remember what had happened to cause such a feeling.

There was the vague image of a sea of snow, perhaps even an ocean. There was a rickety house and only a single bed. And… chimneys?

He groaned a second time, rolling over onto his right side. What on earth was he laying on that was so cold?

 

“Enj- Enjolras?” He croaked, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

 

The name tasted… different than it usually did. Usually the name held a certain sense of doubt, but always loyalty. He hadn’t known Enjolras right off the bat, but there was a familiar air about him… and now he felt as though 'Enjolras' brought up warm, candle-lit evenings in… a pub? A café?

 

“For God’s sake…” He moaned, refusing to open his eyes. This felt worse than any of the hangovers he had in the past…

 

 _Hangovers?_ Where had that come from? Did he drink sporadically?

 

And a better question, why was he asking himself all this? Was his name not Gilles? Did he not know himself well enough to know if drank often or not?

More faces passed in and out of his mind. A fierce man with gritted teeth and heavy stubble; a gentle figure with long locks and strong eyes; a freckled boy that blushed as though it were his job…

What… What was happening?

 

Suddenly, a door eased open from somewhere in the room, and quietly closed itself again. There were light footsteps and something warm draped over his body.

He sat up, propping himself up on his elbows. “You… Enjolras…?”

“Yes, yes, it’s me,” He sighed.

“Why were we… in Russia?” He dragged his eyes open.

 

The look that passed Enjolras’s face was almost heartbreaking. A mixture of surprise and desperation and… hope? He fell to his knees on the chilly earth, grabbing at Gilles’s face, and then his hands. It seemed as though he didn’t know what to do with himself exactly. His eyes darted everywhere, scanning Gilles’s own eyes.

He tried to speak, but stopped short when he realized if he did, his voice would crack.

Gilles shook his head, the image of collapsing in the middle of a street sliding into his memory. What was that place called? Something beginning with a V…?

Gilles laughed in spite of himself. “Look at you, Apollo. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this worried in my life.”

“Stop talking… Stop…” His head fell forward, his shoulders drooping. This Enjolras, this leader, looked defeated.

And then it was there again – a stinging pain in the back of his skull, rattling his brain. Gilles reached a hand behind his head, feeling something wet. When he brought his hand back, it was dripping with blood. It slid down his fingers, dropping on his pant leg.

 

Gilles stifled a laugh. “I must look like Bahorel.”

 

That was what had done it.

 

Enjolras felt everything in him go limp, yet every hair stood on end. He was too frightened to say something, to break this moment, for if he said the wrong thing, he might cease whatever progress this was. He brought the back of his hand to his mouth, refusing to let Grantaire see the few tears that fell from his eyes.

Grantaire was there, and this time it was not a glimpse or a glimmer — Grantaire was cracking through this shell. He was hammering his way out of his casing, remembering everything. He had to be.

 

Enjolras had his hopes before, but with the mention of Bahorel, everything came crashing down on him. He was weeping into his palms at the thought of Courfeyrac and Combeferre, unjustly taken from him so early on, and Jehan, whom had been dragged from his comfort, from his rightful place, to an empty street and _murdered like a dog_ , left there to rot.

Jehan was not an individual to leave to rot. Jehan should have been buried with his brothers with flowers in his hair and beautiful words on his lips and his hands crossed over his heart. He should’ve died old and warm, with a life of happiness and freedom trailing behind him.

Combeferre should have been wrapped in the arms of Joly or Courfeyrac, loved and smiling until he took his last breath. He should have passed peacefully in his sleep, his toes curled up underneath a blanket, his mind at ease.

Courfeyrac never should have died. He should have gone on living into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, bringing smiles to everyone he encountered. He should have told people they were beautiful and wonderful. He should have kissed and laughed and sang and ruffled young boys’ hair and eaten fully every night, but he _couldn’t_ because he was gone in heartbeat, his muscles and tissue contorting in a painful manner when the bullets pierced him!

And that was no way for a boy like Courfeyrac to go.

 

And _Grantaire._ Grantaire should have become a Caravaggio. He should’ve been better than Francisco de Goya. He should have grown old, studying colors and lines and landscapes to his heart’s content, and he should have never touched another bottle in his life. He should have been happy and free, smiling with his friends. He shouldn’t have been dragged from hell back to Earth, all across the continent, with no clue of who he was. He should have loved and been loved, and died with snark and dignity. He would have been fierce and sarcastic and devoted until the end.

 

And so Enjolras couldn’t take it.

He couldn’t handle it.

 

Especially when those two words fell from Grantaire’s mouth that evening in that damp, dark room with his fingers splayed out on the ground, his heart hammering in his rib cage.

 

“I remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news: I'm not dead!
> 
> Well, I've noticed that this fandom has died down a little bit, and I lost my interest in this story for a little while, but now I've got it moving again, and I'm more determined than ever to finish it! It was a little difficult getting back into the writing style, and weaseling my way into their personalities, but i hope I did an alright job.
> 
> I can't wait to finally bring this story to a close. One more chapter should about do it. Please, please, please let me know what you guys think in the comments, it's always greatly appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> The notes Grantaire played on the broken piano were the notes to Augustana's Boston. (Not mine, obviously.)  
> The song seemed to fit.
> 
> The point-of-view changes off every so often, hopping back and forth between Grantaire and Enjolras.
> 
> If you liked it, please keep reading, I promise things won't be written out in such a big bulk all at once, I'll split them up better. But, if you liked it, I hope you keep reading.


End file.
